


To warm the world, that's done in warming us

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mixture of Modern and Canon, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Winter At Kaer Morhen, individual stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 29,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: A collection of prompts from Tumblr based around the wolves of Kaer Morhen (with added Aiden and Bard). There's no chronology or order; each chapter should be treated as a separate story.Title taken from the poem "Sun Rising" by John Donne.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 270
Kudos: 428





	1. Geralt/Jaskier - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt tries chocolate for the first time..._

Jaskier stumbles across a Zerrikanian trader in Oxenfurt. The market is renowned for selling the weird, wonderful and exotic. He bypasses the magical compasses, the jars full of suspicious looking liquid and exquisite silks, but stops when he reaches a stall selling food. One delicacy in particular catches his eye; it’s displayed in smooth, brown baking paper with silk ribbons tied in a neat bow. There’s no mistaking the smell.

Chocolate.

_It’s expensive. Very expensive._

There’s a reason for that. It has to come from miles and miles away; from distant lands where the climate is suffocatingly hot and the plants that grow the beans and the canes can flourish. Jaskier’s tasted some before at a ball hosted by some Nilfgaardian aristocrats before the war. It was like putting a small piece of heaven into his mouth; as smooth and silky in texture as the material it’s wrapped in. In his excitement, he summons Geralt. “Geralt! Geralt? Ahh, Geralt. Look.”

Geralt doesn’t recognise it. His nostrils flare in interest, pupils blowing wide. “What is it?”

“It’s chocolate. Haven’t you tried it before? Oh, everyone should try it at least once. Divine, exquisite…”

“Hm. Expensive.” He waves it away as a needless luxury and returns to studying the leather bridle at the tanner’s stall.

Geralt has never tried chocolate. Never.

A travesty. A crime.

The following day, after playing his little bardic heart out at the local drinking establishment, Jaskier returns to the stall and purchases a single slab. For Geralt. Because Geralt deserves a little luxury, even if he doesn’t realise it. While his Witcher is out scouting work, Jaskier gets a bath prepared, with a nice big tankard of ale. And he waits.

For ages.

Luckily, Geralt arrives back before the water gets too cold. He strips off his clothes with a grateful huff and essentially dives in headfirst. He snuffles at the bath salts - his favourite, not too smelly - and picks up the washcloth - the nice one, Jaskier’s - to clean. Once he’s settled and halfway through his ale - the nice kind, without too many… unsavoury additions - Jaskier strikes.

Well, he swoops in with a square of chocolate behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

“Jaskier…”

“Geralt.” Jaskier rumbles back in a poor imitation of Geralt’s gravelly timber. The Witcher sighs, but does as he’s told and Jaskier places the square to his lips. “Open.”

Geralt can smell it. He sniffs with interest and then opens his mouth, one amber eye peeking. Jaskier places the square of precious culinary heaven ‘pon his tongue and steps back. He waits.

Geralt chews. Very slowly. His eyes stay closed as he explores the taste. Foreign. Sweet. Smooth, and sticky. Delicious. His tongue sweeps around his teeth in search of every last morsel. “Hmm.”

That’s a happy 'hmm’. Jaskier grins. “Nice?” He didn’t need to ask. Geralt opens his eyes and his pupils are huge; his head tilts and he tries to hide the fact that he’s looking for more. A wolf in search of another treat. He’s a good wolf - loyal, hardworking - so Jaskier, of course, obliges. Two more squares are placed carefully into Geralt’s mouth; he savours it, purring with pleasure.

Then he sits up suddenly. “Wait. How much is left?”

“Plenty, don’t worry. Just enjoy it.”

“Hmm,” he shuffles in the water, tongue still occasionally slipping out over his lips. “Can we - ?” He trails off.

“Geralt?”

“Can we save it? Split it into three portions?”

“Of course.”

Geralt doesn’t explain any further. He also doesn’t eat any more, carefully sequestering the small packages away at the bottom of Roach’s saddlebags. Jaskier forgets they even have it. Before long, they head back to Kaer Morhen for their winter hibernation.

That first evening, Geralt reverently unwraps his three small parcels and distributes them to Vesemir and his brothers. The old wolf recognises it immediately and thanks Geralt with a crooked smile.

Eskel and Lambert poke at it, suspicious, and then they eat their first square.

Jaskier has never heard the Witchers all purr at once. It practically echoes around the hall. Even Vesemir, as old as he is, quietly rumbles away as he savours each bite.

Eskel beams and pulls Geralt into a strong, one-armed hug. Lambert sniffs - “not bad” - but Jaskier can see the smile teasing at the corners of his lips as he picks up another piece. When he’s done, he reaches across to Eskel’s parcel with a sly smirk. Eskel slaps his hand with a warning growl.

It quickly devolves into a wrestling match beneath the dining table. Once he gains the upperhand - not difficult in a confined space, he’s a lot bigger - Eskel reaches up to grab his chocolate and feeds another square to Lambert, followed by a discreet, chocolatey kiss to his nose.

Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders with an open smile. “Thank you, lark.” He nuzzles into his bard’s doublet with a quiet, contented growl.

From then on, Jaskier buys his wolves a bar of chocolate each as their winter solstice gift. He saves all year just to make sure he can afford it when the time comes.

It’s totally worth it.

After a year of hardship and suffering on the Path, the Witchers deserve a small moment of luxury on their first night home.


	2. Jaskier/Geralt & Lambert - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier meets Lambert for the first time on the Path..._

Geralt walked into the gaol and with a heavy, calming sigh through this nose. Jaskier had insisted on accompanying him; the prospect of meeting another Witcher was far too good an opportunity to miss. The usual warnings for dealing with this particular member of his pack had been carefully explained. Don’t take anything he says personally, don’t look him in the eye, he’ll see it as a challenge , and definitely _– no matter how tempting it might be_ – don’t fucking flirt with him.

As a result of Geralt’s serious, melancholy briefing, Jaskier was expecting a formidable visage of a man. All towering muscle, feral snarls and brooding menace. Well, the word feral was appropriate, at least, as Jaskier was about to find out.

“You here for the other one?” The gaoler asked, gruff and mostly uninterested.

“Yes. Where is he?” Geralt’s tone was flat, even. He ignored the looks of distaste from the other guards and followed the gaoler’s pointing finger to one of the cells. The bard bounced eagerly up behind him and peered through the bars.

The man inside was easily as tall as Geralt, if not quite as dense. He had short-cropped, slightly receded brown hair and three scars running down the right side of his face. His jaw was covered in a scruffy, unkempt – and rather patchy, in places – beard, and his red shirt hung loosely off broad shoulders. When he smelled Geralt, those amber eyes flickered open, bright, cunning and expressive, and Jaskier watched the beginning of a smirk warp his lips. He couldn’t talk though.

“Why’s he gagged?” Geralt called over his shoulder.

“He wouldn’t fucking well _shut up,_ ” the gaoler groused, “he bitched for hours, and then he started _singing_ – well, _howling_ – so we gagged him.”

“I need to talk to him, so I’m removing it.” Geralt motioned at the other Witcher to approach the bars, and the gaoler waved a dismissive hand, returning to his card game. “Lambert, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Public indecency?”

Lambert _– what a human name, Jaskier thinks –_ worked his jaw in a wide circle now that the gag hung around his neck. Those amber eyes were even more enthralling up close; they glittered with a keen, mischievous intelligence that went some way to explain his current predicament without any further exposition. “It’s not what you think - .”

“This is the third time this year that we’ve had to bail you out.”

“Third ti - ? How do you know?” Lambert glowered, and then growled. “ _Eskel._ He’s such a gossip. Like an old washerwoman.”

“Unlike me, his involvement is born out of concern for you.” Geralt rubbed his fingers into his eyes.

“What happened the _first_ two times?” Jaskier piped up, emerging from behind Geralt’s broad back to admire the Witcher a little closer.

Lambert, who had only heard tales of the bard during their winter hibernation, tilted his head and examined him with an approving eye. “Well, _hello,_ pretty thing. What brings you to a dump like this? Not following this walking stick in the mud, surely.”

“Lambert.” Geralt snarled in warning.

Jaskier grinned. So, not all Witchers were into the brooding indifference. Geralt loved him, he knew, but their emotional exchange still remained guarded and careful. “I heard tell of a dashing rogue incarcerated unjustly. I had to come and see whether I could liberate him.”

“Oh, Geralt. Can I borrow him for a night?” 

Geralt opened his mouth to shut it down, but Jaskier was too quick. “Perhaps in exchange for a story or two. My original question, dear Witcher. What happened the first two times?”

“He publicly spanked a nobleman in the middle of a town square.” Geralt growled.

“He was a _very_ naughty boy,” Lambert wriggled his eyebrows, and when Geralt looked about ready to throttle him through the bars. “He refused to pay me, so I took my recompense in another way.”

Jaskier was about ready to burst with a mixture of adoration and excitement. “And the second time?”

“He stole a councillor’s chain of office from _his own home_ and then walked around the town _drunk,_ while wearing it, shouting out new laws. They only caught him because he was eventually so fucked he was _unable to walk._ ” Geralt was clearly running out of patience. 

“Another venture for reimbursement?”

Lambert raised an eyebrow and sighed. “That was a dare. Aiden said I wouldn’t be able to get past the guards. Wolves are too… he used the term club-footed, which I felt was a little bit fucking ableist, so I went about to prove him wrong. I think my new laws were very fair, I particularly liked the one where all titled lords had to fuck a pi - .” 

“Stop talking,” Geralt bashed his fist against the bars. “Let me guess, it was the fucking Cat again this time.”

“I lost a game of strip Gwent,” Lambert nodded. “I don’t know why they’re making such a fucking fuss. My ass is a work of fucking art.” He winked at Jaskier who was now completely in love.

“You’re a disgrace. I’m leaving you here.”

“Geralt, c’mon, you – don’t be – you know what they do to Witchers in places like this.” In a single instant, Jaskier saw a glimmer of legitimate trepidation. Lambert’s hands were still bound in front of him, despite the restraint of the prison bars; they thought he was feral and dangerous. His treatment would reflect this belief. “Besides, I’ve been punished enough.” He leaned forward. “Look at what that prick did to my fucking chest.”

Against his better judgement, Geralt slipped an arm between the bars and shifted Lambert’s shirt aside. Jaskier barked out an incredulous laugh. The Witcher had a very alluring amount of chest hair, but some of it had been shaved away in a very specific design. A heart, with an ‘A’ in the middle, and a scruffy arrow half-finished going through the middle. Geralt sighed. “For fuck’s sake…”

“He did it while I was unconscious, Geralt. Lowest of the low. Fills me with White Gull, mutilates me – “

“It’s not mutilation, Lambert. It’ll grow back.”

“ – look at it, Geralt. _Look_. You need to get me out, I’m going to give Aiden the biggest fucking hiding he’s ever experienced.” 

“You’ll fuck him in the nearest available stable.”

“Hmm,” Lambert seemed to consider this. “Yes. After the hiding. So, gonna’ free me, pretty boy?”

 _Oh, pretty boy._ Jaskier was using that one. He was using it _a lot_.

“I’ll post your bail, but I’m going to ask them to keep you here for another night, so you can really reflect on your fuck up.” With this, Geralt grabbed the gag and shoved it back into Lambert’s mouth when it opened to bluster protest. He turned away and dumped a bag of coin onto the table in front of the gaoler. “Another twenty-four hours and he’s set free. I’ll be back to check. Clear?” 

The gaoler groaned. “ _Fine._ But he’s staying gagged.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

Jaskier cast one last, wistful glance at Lambert, who had skulked petulantly to the back of his cell. _Oh, he was so looking forward to his first winter at Kaer Morhen._


	3. Lambert/Aiden & Jaskier - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier meets Lambert and Aiden in Novigrad..._

As summer began to wane, Geralt headed south into Cintra in search of work and Jaskier headed north back into Redania to catch up with some of his other social circles. Inevitably, he ended up in Novigrad. Redania’s melting pot. Well, geographically, at least. Novigrad’s status as a ‘Free City’ was both a boon and a curse in many ways; skilled craftsmen operated readily alongside those of more roguish trades, and each of the city’s districts were controlled by criminal gangs.

But Jaskier wasn’t there to ruminate on politics and religion. He was there to visit some… friends at the Passiflora. One in particular, actually. Violet. An enchanting young thing. Half elf, if he wasn’t mistaken. What he _didn’t_ expect was to walk into one of Novigrad’s _thirty-five_ inns and find a familiar, bearded face sprawled in the corner. 

And _sprawled_ was definitely the word.

Lambert lounged in his chair, setting it back on two legs, booted feet propped up on the table, with a tankard of something alcoholic balanced on his abdomen. His chin sat close to his chest and his eyes were closed. Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised, however, when his approach was marked. “You do have a habit of frequenting the worst locales.” Lambert didn’t look up. He didn’t even open his eyes. 

“Oh, I don’t know, the scenery has rather improved in the last ten seconds.” Jaskier shrugged the lute from his shoulder and invited himself to the seat opposite. Lambert’s swords were propped up against the wall behind him, along with a single canvas bag bound tightly closed. With all his armour in place, Lambert cut a more intimidating figure than he had on their first meeting. He looked slightly more… _kempt_ as well, although Jaskier could see a healing bruise beneath the stubble on his jaw and a split through his eyebrow. “It’s good to see you again. My memory is a poor surrogate for the magnificence of the real thing.”

“Well, shit,” Lambert finally opened his eyes. Slow, lazy, more like a large cat than a wolf. “Geralt said you could talk your way into anyone’s knickers. I’m about to drop mine already.” He knocked back a mouthful of whatever piss-water he’d been served, and finally dropped the chair back onto all four legs. “What brings you to this particular cesspit?”

“A need for diverse company and a reminder of what civilisation has to offer. As exciting as the Path is, it lacks certain comforts.”

“Yeah, I can still smell the Passiflora on you. You like Violet, hm?” Lambert smirked at Jaskier’s look of surprise. “So you’re not exclusive with Geralt. I’ll keep that in mind.” The conversation might have continued, but Lambert looked up quickly as the tavern door swung open.

Dual sword hilts marked the new arrival as a Witcher even before Jaskier caught sight of those feline eyes as they scoped around the room. Long brown hair was pulled back into a scruffy tail high on his head, with his chiseled jaw framed in a short moustache and goatee ensemble that made him appear every inch a raffish vagabond. Lambert rose from his seat and opened his arms in greeting. “Aiden.”

Aiden grinned. It was thoroughly beguiling. “Lambert, thought I’d find you skulking in this particular dark cor–.” He didn’t get to finish, because Lambert _headbutted_ him right in the centre of the face. It took mere seconds for Aiden to retaliate with a loose right hook that clapped Lambert squarely on the jaw, and then the whole thing devolved into a wrestling match on the floor.

Lambert seethed. “You don’t just - ggrr, nngh - dick down and leave me for the fuckin’ militia, you piece of _shit_.”

“You know I can’t - oof - get caught by the authorities - what they do to Cats in gaols - and - _oww, not the hair you bitch -_ .”

“And you shaved your name into my fuckin’ chest - while I was _drunk_ \- is nothin’ sacred to you? _Fuckin’ -_ ”

They continued to scuffle and roll around the floor. Jaskier snatched his lute out of the way as Aiden managed to kick Lambert off, sending the wolf sprawling under the table, only to then leap upon him with a knee aimed for his stomach.

“You’re just bitter ‘cause I didn’t _bite it into your ass cheek_ \- aahh, not the _goods,_ Lambert, _fuck.”_

Jaskier jumped up onto the seat of a chair as limbs flailed out from under the table and the cussing continued to pour forth until it reached a sudden crescendo and then - 

_Stopped._

The innkeeper, who’d pulled out a rather large club from beneath the bar, suddenly stilled and the remaining patrons settled back to their drinks when it became clear there wasn’t going to be any bloodshed. 

Jaskier jumped down from his perch and peered beneath the table to find the two Witchers curled around each other, their lips locked together in a rather heated kiss; tongues lapping into mouths even as Aiden pinned Lambert to the floor by the gods-damned throat. Blood trickled down from split lips and bruised faces, with one of Lambert’s pauldrons askew and Aiden’s hair hanging loose across the other’s face in a shaggy curtain. 

Aiden pulled away first, one hand planted in the centre of Lambert’s chest, and he locked eyes with Jaskier, one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?” 

It took a special level of brazen, don’t-give-a-single-fuck audacity to kiss in the middle of a semi-crowded tavern, and Jaskier could respect that. No one seemed to be paying much attention now the scuffle had subsided anyway and, partially obscured by the table they’d ended up beneath, they were relatively discreet, but still - “Aiden, this is Jaskier. Geralt’s barker.” Lambert introduced them, but made no effort to move out from beneath his… _lover with complications._

“Oh, the bard,” Aiden’s green eyes - _because they were an enchanting, verdurous shade rather than amber, oh sweet Melitele_ \- lit up with interest. “Toss a Coin, Her Sweet Kiss - ,” Aiden extracted himself out from beneath the table and popped back up onto his feet as if he hadn’t just had seven bells knocked out of him by his… _paramour with problematic caveats,_ “- where’s the boy wonder? Isn’t he usually in tow?”

Lambert clambered out from beneath the table, dabbed at the blood trickling from his lip and righted a chair so that he could sit down. Jaskier grinned. “Geralt headed down to Cintra. Should be a few weeks. You’re the first Witcher I’ve met from the School of C–.” He didn’t expect the hand that pushed over his mouth and raised an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah. Griffin school.” Aiden said, loud enough for those nearby. “I’d be obliged if you _remembered_ that.” When Jaskier dipped his head in understanding, Aiden took his hand away and glanced over his shoulder; Lambert was already shuffling through his Gwent deck. “Want to join us for a couple of rounds?”

“Gwent? I’ve heard you’re quite the master,” Jaskier placed his lute back down now that it was safe and opened the case to find his deck. “Maybe I can learn a few things.”

“Oh yeah, if you want to learn how to cheat and swindle,” Lambert growled. “There’s no better teacher.”

“Now now, baby wolf. No need to be bitter. Best of five, loser buys the round, winner stays on.”

“You’re on, mog–,” Lambert glanced at some nearby faces, “–asshole.”

“Poor save.”

“Fuck off, you just bashed my head in.”

“If you play your cards right, I’ll bash your other one later tonight.”

“Such a romantic.” Lambert sighed, but Jaskier could see the delinquent little smile teasing the corners of his lips, and those keen amber eyes were a-glitter, perspicacious and bright. 

They played well into the night. Jaskier lost more than he won, but the Witchers took it easy on the drink orders. Very sporting of them. In between devastatingly aggressive plays, Aiden talked about some of his most recent contracts, although Jaskier got the sense that he was deploying a degree of euphemism when discussing the… _subject_ of some. His medallion remained tucked inside his shirt, whereas Lambert displayed his as Geralt did. There was more to his reluctance to acknowledge his school than Jaskier had been told.

He studied Lambert too. The expressive nature of his face and his eyes; the way he disregarded the disapproving looks cast errantly towards them by passing patrons. Where Geralt seemed very conscious of his otherness, Lambert appeared to aggressively _ignore_ it. He filled the area around him like he had a damned right; sprawling his legs, throwing his arms up in defeat, pushing people to the side at the bar if they moved too slowly in their drunken haze. Like he was _challenging_ the world to deny him his space in it. 

When they were pleasantly inebriated and Jaskier had been given the chance to win back some of the money he’d lost, the two Witchers bid him farewell and headed upstairs. Their uneven, stumbling gaits were audible as they staggered through the corridor, and then the door _ricocheted_ off the wall.

_Oh, what Jaskier would give to be in the middle of that bed this evening._


	4. Letho/Eskel - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mafia!AU. Modern Day Continent. Mob Boss Letho treats his boys with care… his favourite boy is a dashing professor of literature at Oxenfurt Academy._

“Go get yourself a coffee. I’ll call you when I’m ready.” 

The driver nodded silently and Letho stepped out of the car onto the pavement. The autumn air was brisk and he turned the collar of his coat up against the wind as he walked through the university courtyard. The porter at the doors stepped aside without a word. He knew better than to question Letho’s presence. At this time of night, the corridors were empty, but some academics were still toiling away in their offices; the orange, artificial light of their lamps sporadically illuminating the polished black leather of his shoes as he strode passed.

There was only one academic he was interested in. Said academic had stood him up this evening, no doubt buried in his latest treatise on some long dead poet. If it had been anyone else, Letho would have had them bagged and thrown down at his feet in the club. But no, this man was a special case. _His_ special case. 

As predicted, that same weak light flooded out beneath the office door. He didn’t knock. Just walked straight in and closed it quietly behind him. 

“You’ll strain your eyes working in this light, Eskel.” Letho murmured, his voice, although low, carried easily through the silence. 

Eskel looked up over the top of his reading glasses, his hazel eyes wide and confused; that deep rumble settled deep inside his chest and sent shivers across his shoulders. “Letho - I - what time is it? We’re not due to meet until - ,” he glanced down at the watch on his wrist and his shoulders sagged as realisation dawned, “ah.”

“Three hours ago.” Letho approached the desk with a slow, deliberate gait, taking his time to study Eskel in his natural habitat. Flanked by towering bookshelves of literature, framed in the oak panelling and autumnal shades of his office, Eskel looked most at home; the words of dead poets and writers spoke to him in a way that the rest of the world didn’t. His scruffy black hair fell haphazardly around his face from where he’d been running his hands through it, lost in thought, and now he touched the scars on the right side of his face self-consciously, because he felt both guilty and anxious about missing their date.

As Letho rounded the side of the desk, Eskel turned in his seat and tugged at the hem of his shirt. A shirt that Letho had bought him just like everything else he was currently wearing; the plush cashmere jumper draped over the back of the chair, the expensive wool slacks belted at his hips and the polished black shoes on his feet. Because when you belonged to this particular mob boss, he made sure you _looked_ and _felt_ the part; only the very best for his most treasured possessions. 

Letho stood before Eskel, head tilted to the side, and slowly removed the glasses perched on his nose. As beguiling as Eskel looked with them on, Letho preferred to see those beautiful eyes when they blew wide in anticipation. It took only the light pressure of a single finger tucked beneath Eskel’s chin to coax him to his feet. His boy was both obedient and eager. “What am I going to do with you, hm?”

“Letho, I’m sorry - you know what it’s like when I’m getting to the end of a - .” Eskel stopped abruptly as that same finger pressed over his lips, while a large hand settled on his hip and guided his rear up against the edge of the desk. Eskel was broad, well-built, but Letho made him feel _delicate._

“At least tell me you’re wearing my latest gift?” He stroked Eskel’s lower lip, teasing, and then trailed down to the first button of his shirt. 

“Y - yes.” Eskel whispered, already breathless as Letho closed the space between them. There were barely any points of contact yet - fingertips, gentle touches - but he was already getting hard. Because he knew Letho wanted to _look_ , and f _uck_ Eskel wanted him to _see_. His own hands grasped the edge of the table - well-trained - as Letho picked open each button and then sighed in quiet awe. The black lace bodice started just below Eskel’s full pectorals and ended at the flare of his hips, intricate and delicate, a contrast to the firm, powerful body it encased. Letho ran his fingers along the seam between skin and silky material and Eskel’s breath hitched. It was tight enough to tug in around the defined muscles of his abdominals, and Letho traced those next, delighting in the way Eskel’s torso shifted and flexed in pleasure. “Such a pretty boy. Are you wearing everything?”

“Yes.” Eskel’s nails bit into the woodgrain of the desk as Letho plucked at the buckle of his belt, drawing the leather through embossed silver as if he had all the time in the world; he stroked the line of a garter strap from the bottom of the bodice to the edge of Eskel’s waistband. “Letho - .”

“I love it when you’re needy for me, sweet thing, but have some patience. Mmm, lovely,” Letho growled as he undid the button and fly at Eskel’s crotch to find the red lace panties beneath. Eskel’s cock pushed out against the confines, stretching the material across flushed skin, and Letho ran that single exploratory finger down a thick vein barely visible beneath the floral design. His boy was disciplined though; narrow hips only twitched as he contained the urge to buck into the contact.

“Gonna’ take these off.” He guided Eskel off the table, smiling when tense hands pulled off the edge with the difficulty of separating velcro. The wool slacks pooled on the floor at Eskel’s ankles, sliding noiselessly down the black silk stockings framing his shapely legs. With a coy shuffle, Eskel slipped out of his shoes and nudged them aside; his chin bowed, but Letho was there to lift his head up again. “Don’t hide from me, sugar. I think you’re beautiful.” Those iridescent hazel eyes glowed with pleasure, and Letho made a show of leaning back to run his own down the length of Eskel’s body; the black bodice, the thin suspenders attached to a lace garter framing the red panties that cradled Eskel’s impressive arousal.

Letho slipped Eskel’s shirt away from one broad shoulder and finally - finally - pressed up against him as lips and teeth pressed to the slope of his neck. Eskel keened, hands burying in Letho’s waistcoat in search of an anchor, and tilted his head back to expose his throat for more biting kisses. Every inch of skin that Letho touched prickled with delight and Eskel surrendered completely to it; big hands ran down over his waist and hips, causing the silky lace to ripple over his body in the most delicious way. When thick fingers grabbed his thighs, Eskel sat back on the edge of the desk and spread them eagerly, moaning when he felt the hardness straining at the front of Letho’s trousers press against his. 

“You upset me, sweet thing. I had our night all planned out,” Letho purred against Eskel’s skin as he worked lower, leaving marks dotted across tanned skin, until he reached a peaked nipple. His tongue swirled around the hardened nub and Eskel whimpered, his control lapsing as he ground himself forward. “And you made me come looking for you. Gonna’ have to punish you for that.”

“Letho, please.” Eskel whined, toes curling as blunt nails raked up his calves and thighs.

“My left pocket.” Letho straightened as he spoke; his tongue lapped into the arch of Eskel’s ear as a stuttering hand followed his order without need for further explanation. The hitch of Eskel’s breath as his fingers wrapped around the narrow bottle of lube elicited a wry smirk and Letho sank slowly to his knees.

“Here - ? I - .”

He sounded so scandalised and that just inflamed Letho further. “Yeah, sugar. Right here. On your desk, over your papers. When you’re talkin’ to your students, you’ll only be able to think of me. Maybe then you won’t forget our dates so easily.” He mouthed his way up a sculpted calf, and then slid his tongue through the dip of his thigh muscle; Eskel’s toes were curling inside the soft silk of his stockings and Letho ran his fingers over them, sampling every small expression of excitement. His boy was usually so shy, so reserved, and unpicking him with words and tenderness was all part of the fun.

“But, what if - ? I - nngh.”

“So hard for me. Such a good boy.” Breathed against the curve of Eskel’s prick through the lace, stained dark by precum. Letho hooked a finger through the waistband of the panties, tugged them down Eskel’s thighs and immediately swallowed his shaft when it fell free; heavy and throbbing. Eskel groaned, spine arching, his hand cupping the smooth skin of Letho’s head as it bobbed over him. The filthy, shameless slurps filled the room, an echo of the equally wanton grunts and whines escaping Eskel’s chest. Letho’s nails snagged in the stockings over Eskel’s thighs and tore a hole in his enthusiasm. The louder his boy was, the hungrier he got, until he finally pulled off and shoved Eskel down onto his back.

Papers scattered onto the floor as Eskel’s arms scrambled for purchase, his laptop nearly following suit when Letho lifted his legs up and rested them up along his broad chest. “Mmm. Gonna’ be nice and loud, sugar? Want all your colleagues to hear what a good boy you are for me.” He slicked his fingers with lube and teased them around Eskel’s rim; it fluttered and clenched eagerly, taking his first finger effortlessly as he undid his belt and trousers. His hand moved at a demanding pace; a second finger, then a third, added until Eskel was stretched and wet.

“C’mon, Letho. Please, please - I - ahhh. Mmm - nnngh. Please.”

“No one begs as prettily as you.” Letho replaced the stroke of his fingers with the head of his cock, lower lip between his teeth, and watched Eskel arch off the desk as he eased inside. “Mmm, fuck, yeah. You take me so well.”

“Fuck, fuck, aahhh…” Eskel latched onto the big hand wrapped around his thigh as Letho’s heavy balls nestled against him; his thick cock buried to the hilt and held there, splitting Eskel in half, pressing into the muscles of his abdomen in search of space. Full wasn’t the word. Overflowing was closer to the mark and Eskel whimpered. The moment Letho’s hips started to move, Eskel crumbled, his head thrown back into the hard surface of the desk. It started slowly at first, because Letho liked watching Eskel’s slow descent into incoherent madness; every inch moving inside him at just the right angle to make him bray and gasp.

“Such a tight little hole for me to breed, boy. So pretty laid out like this,” Letho snapped his hips forward with force now, hands gripping hard in the firm muscles of Eskel’s thighs to hold him still at the edge of the desk. The aggressive piston enough to make the drawers rattle and send more carefully written student essays sprawling onto the floor.

“Nffggh, yes, Letho, _please - please,_ ahhh.”

Letho tilted his head and placed a kiss to the ankle set against his shoulder, and then fought to keep his eyes open so he could watch Eskel coil tight as he worked up to his orgasm. His equally impressive prick flicked and drooled across the delicate lace of his bodice, barrelled chest flushed, hazel eyes misty. His boy was beautiful in every way, from his pretty, expressive feet curling and flexing in pleasure inside their silk stockings, to the scars on the right side of his face that he touched self-consciously whenever he was praised. Eskel was a symphony of power and beauty, and he belonged to _Letho._

Eskel’s body clamped down as he hit his peak, spurting strips of spend over his chest; Letho worked him through it and then fell over into his own climax with a bitten off snarl of possessive pleasure, fingers tightening on taut thighs as he ground his hips forward. When he pulled out, the evidence of his claim spilled out of Eskel onto the trousers below, and Letho stroked his quivering thigh affectionately. “Always leave me satisfied, sugar.”

“Mmmph.”

“Not gonna’ forget about me again, are you?”

“No…”

Letho tucked his softening cock back into his boxers and did up his trousers. “You’ve made such a mess,” he smirked and accepted the open, messy kiss his boy gifted him once he’d managed to sit up. “Hmm. All is forgiven.”

“Good.” Eskel leaned his forehead against the broad chest in front of him. He almost said ‘I love you’, but what they had wasn’t love - it was _something_ \- something that defied description. It wasn’t _healthy_ , it wasn’t good, but Eskel returned time and again like a drug addict, because he _needed_ it. “Don’t suppose you’re gonna’ let me finish my chapter, are you?”

“No. Round two’s in my bed. Get dressed.”

Eskel did as he was told.


	5. Jaskier & Lambert - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier accompanies Lambert on a contract in Novigrad..._

The Bits really were the worst, but apparently this was where they would find their vampire. _Katakan._ This was a _katakan._ Geralt never let Jaskier work with him directly, so this was an unmissable opportunity. Lambert hadn’t told him much, but it only added to the excitement.

They approached a small, rundown building. The windows were mostly empty of glass, and the roof was missing more than a handful of tiles. Lambert stopped on the street corner. “Go up. Knock on the door and say you’ve got some gemstones to trade.”

“Wh-what?” The bard blinked in alarm.

“You thought I’d bring you along for the funsies?” Lambert quirked a brow. “Make yourself fucking useful and do as you’re told.”

“What if he - ?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?” He was no coward, but he wasn’t _stupid_ either, and walking right into the open arms of a vampire smacked of stupidity. 

Lambert tilted his head, arms folded, eyebrow still raised. That expression only meant one thing: _because I’m a Witcher._

 _“_ Fine, but if it bites me, Geralt will be having words.”

“I’m so scared I think a little bit of piss came out,” Lambert said, deadpan. “Hurry up, bard. Daylight’s wasting. His name’s George.” 

With a deep breath, Jaskier sidled up to the front door and bashed on it with a closed fist. “Uh - George? I have your latest shipment of gemstones. They told me to - come and - deliver it.” His voice sounded lame even to his own ears, so he was thoroughly perplexed when the sound of shuffling came from within. Metal chains jangled, heavy bolts slid through wooden brackets, and slowly the door creaked open.

A pale, gaunt face peeked through the gap. His eyes were a startling amethyst, and even from this angle Jaskier could see the sparkly objects wound into his wiry black hair. “You’re new, I don’t recall your name - .”

The katakan didn’t get to finish, because Lambert cleared the distance in the blink of a human eye and shoulder-barged his way through the door; Jaskier barely managed to throw himself out of the way in time.

“‘Ello, Georgie-boy, miss me?” Lambert sneered as he advanced into the damp, musty interior.

The vampire let out a high-pitched, effeminate scream and backtracked. “Lambert! No! I haven’t done anything wrong!” George scarpered across the floor. The plethora of chimes and jewels woven through his thick mane of hair tinkled prettily as he tried to scramble up the wall. Unfortunately for him, Lambert was faster; the Witcher grabbed his leg and yanked him back to the floor.

“I told you that if you relapsed I’d be back for your head,” Lambert growled, and then grunted in irritation when the katakan wiggled out of his grasp and skittered across to another dark corner. “Have a nice wooden plaque ready for you in Kaer Morhen. It reads: ‘Here hangeth George: lying, blood-sucking piece of shit’.”

“No! No! I haven’t - I - I - ahh! I p-promise.” The katakan squealed as Lambert let off an Aard that shattered through several pieces of furniture.

As terrifying as the display was, Jaskier realised the Witcher was _holding back._ The vampire was thin - sickly, even; Lambert would be able to cut him down with a single swing of the silver blade on his back. _But no._ There was another game afoot here.

“Little boys and girls are going missing from the villages just outside the walls, George, and their bedrooms stink of katakan,” Lambert side-stepped into the vampire’s path, shuffling to and fro as George tried to scuttle towards various hiding places. “And you’re the only furry magpie motherfucker I know of in the area.”

“It’s not me! It’s not me! I would never! Lambert, I would never!” George backed into a corner and cowered, his hands over his head; his voice barely qualified as a squeak now. “It’s not me…” He whined.

The Witcher snagged a fistful of wiry black mane and wrenched the katakan from the floor. He pinned him to the wall with that single hand and the weight of his glare. “I’m listening.”

“No, I can’t - he’s - he’ll _kill_ me.”

“George, _I_ will fucking kill you unless you tell me what I want to know,” he reached into the back of his belt and flipped out his trophy knife; the blade pressed against the katakan’s jugular. “Hmm. Now, if I cut here, you’ll still turn back into an ugly asshole, won’t you? A human head is a bit macabre even for me.”

George whimpered. “Okay, okay, but you _must_ kill him. Or - or we’ll all pay the price,” he sniffled. “He’s in a cave just outside Roggeven. He’s a vile piece of work. Completely blood drunk, and - .”

“Alright, thank you,” Lambert’s voice softened as did his grip, and he slid his knife away. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The katakan whimpered. The chimes and bells in his hair tinkled as he shivered. “No.”

“You on fisstech again?”

“Only occasionally,” George murmured, eyes downcast. “It… helps take the edge off.”

“Hmm.” Lambert tucked his trophy knife into his belt and dipped his hand inside his gambeson; the katakan flinched away instinctively, but the Witcher pulled out a small golden bell. He rang it once, and the katakan’s eyes blew wide in awe. “The Wolves of Kaer Morhen thank you for your cooperation.” 

“For me?”

“For you.” Lambert placed the bell carefully into an outstretched palm; the fingers were slightly clawed, and those amethyst eyes were streaked with red. George had lost control in his terror. “Be good, George. I’ll see you later.”

“I hope not.” George whispered as the Witcher turned around, but didn’t bother to muffle the purr of pleasure as he wove the little bell into his hair. 

“Come, bard.” Lambert clicked his fingers and Jaskier trotted out behind him with only a small frown at the nature of his _instruction._

As they walked back into Novigrad proper, Jaskier finally asked. “ _That_ was a katakan?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you kill it?”

“He’s harmless,” Lambert scrubbed a palm over his bristled jaw, clearly lost in thought. “And more useful alive.”

“But you accused him of relapsing? I assume that means _blood._ He used to drink _blood.”_

“When I found him the first time, he’d just ripped the throat out of a man and was feasting on his entrails. Katakans are savage bastards when they want to be.”

“Okay. Same question. Why is he not dead?”

“The man in question had kept him in a cage most of his natural life. Experiments, torture,” Lambert sniffed, nonchalant. “The fucker deserved it. George didn’t know any better. He was basically a kid. Still is, really. Do you always ask this many fucking questions? No wonder Geralt thinks you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Geralt thinks I’m a –,” Jaskier started, and then glowered. _An attempt to change the subject._ “Alright. One more then. Is he the only _useful_ creature you’ve kept alive?”

“No. Decree of Eskel number fifty-seven. Never kill something that can be useful at a later date.”

“Decree fifty-seven?”

“Oh yeah. Right after decree fifty-six: if it has horns and hooves, only fuck it if it also has a human face,” Lambert murmured, pausing to gain his bearings, before heading vaguely towards the public stables. “And before decree fifty-eight, sex is not an appropriate use of Axii.” 

“You’re… how many decrees are there? Lambert?”

The Witcher walked away with a droll smirk, shoved his hands in his pockets and started to whistle ‘Toss a Coin’.

“Lambert, are you pulling my - ? You’re not being serious, are you? Lambert? You can’t be - what’s decree number one? Don’t try and distract me with my own material. Does Geralt know about these decrees?”

_Jaskier ran out of breath before Lambert ran out of stubborn, which was pretty fucking impressive by all accounts._


	6. Lambert/Aiden - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert reaches the end of the Path..._
> 
> CW: Apparent Major Character Death.

_So fucking stupid._

No salves. Barely any White Gull. Broken armour and blunted weapons due to lack of funds. Of course, a fiend was an acceptable contract to take. Civilisation was encroaching. The contracts were thinning. The reward was just too tempting.

_Fucking rookie._

Lambert grimaced and smacked his head back against the tree trunk, as much to keep himself conscious as punishment for his stupidity. He glanced down beneath his left palm and scowled, before squeezing his fingers tight to try and stem the inevitable, but bountiful amounts of crimson still poured through the gaps. Three deep lacerations. He was bleeding out.

The corpse of the fiend lay several metres away, Lambert’s sword still sticking out of its neck like a third horn. Fighting it in close quarters prevented it from charging; his last samum bomb stopped it using its third eye to enthrall him, but Lambert’s chosen battleground played its role in his own downfall. One false move cost him.

This was it. _The last contract._

For the first time since he was a child, Lambert felt afraid. Not of the wound. The wound hurt. But of dying. He never imagined he would be scared of death. Death walked with a Witcher everywhere they went, so why did he look into its bottomless eyes and feel his heart clench in his chest? The darkness clouded the edges of his vision and he panted in desperation, willing his eyes to stay open as his body began to shiver. _Shock. It’s just shock. Focus._

The mind plays tricks when it begins to struggle. The shadows cast by the low autumn sun were dancing beneath the trees, and the distant howls of wolves coalesced into an ethereal chorus until it cut down to his very soul. _Fuck, don’t want to get eaten alive. Not that._

Broken images drifted through his memory; Kaer Morhen and his brothers, Vesemir in his library of dusty tomes, his time with the School of Cat; so, so many faces, contracts. And Jaskier, Geralt’s bard, the embrace that seemed to have triggered a set of dominos to… Aiden. Now Lambert screwed his eyes shut, and he heard a vague, distant whine. _His own_.

Two months since they saw each other last. He could still feel Aiden’s hands in his, imagine the warmth of his smile, and hear the words that only Aiden ever said to him.

_Love you, Wolf._

His voice felt so loud that Lambert was certain he was there. “Going to break… promise…” Lambert informed the dead fiend next to him.

The promise. The one they made every time they left the latest shithole tavern they met in; be there for me when I arrive. _There._ The name they gave to the moments they could share together. The moments when the Path faded into the obscure and the focus of their worlds became each other. The place didn’t matter - woodland, tavern, whorehouse, crossroads - but there always meant the two of them. Just them. Lambert’s thoughts were losing coherence, and he struggled desperately to piece them back together.

“Aiden.” It sounded like a sob. Couldn’t be from him. Lambert hadn’t cried in nearly a century. Over a century. How long had it been?

He hadn’t treasured him enough. Valued it. The last time they were together. Just taken it for granted - the kisses, the feel of Aiden against him, the stupid stories and that smile. _That smile._ Stupid, shit-eating grin that made Lambert dissolve inside. Every time. Even when it was accompanied by a really bad idea, or a shit joke. He would give anything to see it just once more.

_Getting colder._

His eyes were failing him. The branches and the bushes were vague, dark shapes and the pain in his side felt like a distant ache. It’s alright. Not long. This wasn’t so bad. The stories they told at Kaer Morhen of dying on the Path during his training years were always grisly and macabre; entrails hanging out, eyes gouged, poisoned or limbs severed. This wasn’t that. This was almost peaceful. The numbness helped. The quiet… and the memories of Aiden.

He grinned inanely into the emptiness, and the image of his husband swirled into view. First a dull outline drifting from the darkness, and then more featured; more solid. _Lambert. Lambert… look at me_. The Wolf just smiled, his free hand lifting from the floor to reach out for the ghost his mind had provided to comfort him, and the image did the same.

_The world faded to black just as those spectral fingers gripped his arm._

“I’ve got you, Wolf.”


	7. Wolf Pack & Aiden & Bard - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Canonically, Lambert finds the cold unbearable during the winters at Kaer Morhen. Luckily for him, his brothers know what to do!_

“For fuck’s sake, it’s colder than an ice giant’s ass in here!” Lambert shouted through the main hall as he tried to get closer to the fire without actually climbing into the gods-damned hearth.

It was the end of the third week since arriving home; Eskel, Geralt, Jaskier and Aiden sat at the table nearby playing cards and drinking. Lambert had spent the majority of the stay so far grousing about the cold, stomping, and hauling blankets, furs and cloaks around in his wake. A pretty standard winter for the wolves of Kaer Morhen. 

There wasn’t a single tundra-dwelling monster or cold-related pun that hadn’t been brandished angrily in the name of cursing this _gods-damned, frigid fucking tomb of a keep_ , and Lambert had now exhausted witty humour as a coping mechanism in favour of all out bitching.

“It’s not that cold, baby wolf,” Aiden murmured, elbow propped on the edge of the table, “why don’t you come over here and I’ll warm you up?”

“Why don’t _you_ come over _here_? If I leave this fireplace, my fuckin’ balls’ll freeze off.” Lambert wrapped his arms around himself and shivered as if to the prove the point.

Eskel threw his cards down with a sigh and looked at Geralt. “Is it time?”

Geralt hummed, knocking back the remainder of his drink. “Yeah, it’s time.”

The two middle children of Kaer Morhen left the bench. Jaskier blinked up from his song lyrics, and Aiden watched with interest. They grabbed a huge blanket from the back of a bedraggled armchair and stalked towards Lambert, who knew immediately what was happening. “No, you fucks, not with people— _here_!” His voice rose several octaves as he tried to scramble away, but Geralt was quicker. 

The White Wolf pinned him down while Eskel wrestled him out of his gambeson and boots. Lambert cursed up a storm, thrashing and wriggling, as his two older brothers stripped him down to his shirt and braies. Once he was suitably undressed and red in the face, Geralt took him in a bear hug while Eskel laid out the blanket across the bearskin rug. “This is fucking humiliating. I’m going to take a massive shit in your porridge, get the fuck off me, you white-haired cave troll! You fu—.”

Between them, Eskel and Geralt rolled Lambert up in the blanket. It was thick—reinforced hide on the outside, with a warm fur lining—and pinned his arms and legs once it was wrapped tightly enough. He squirmed and thrashed, nipping at the mischievous fingers that scritched his beard and combed through his hair. They dragged their angry roll of Lambert back into the firelight, and then laid down on either side, enclosing him in. “Jaskier, bring the vodka.” Geralt called over his shoulder.

Aiden, smirking, loped over to join them. The Cat and the Bard sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, while Lambert’s swearing simmered down to grumbles, then quiet murmurs of pleasure as the cold vanished from his bones. Aiden chuckled. “This happen every year?”

“Oh yeah,” Geralt nodded. “Whenever the bitching and moaning about the cold reaches a—,” he considered his words carefully, glanced at Jaskier, “a crescendo, we roll him up.” The Bard was delighted with this analogy and stroked a hand affectionately through Geralt’s hair.

Eskel grinned, idly petting Lambert’s beard. “Do love me a Lamburrito.” 

“Bite me.” Lambert growled, but his amber eyes were blown wide and he stayed wrapped up for the rest of the evening, kept warm by the fire, the thick blanket and the love of his two brothers on either side.


	8. Jaskier & Lambert - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier shows Lambert that it's okay to be passionate about things..._

An easel sat on the shores of the lake near Kaer Morhen. Jaskier spotted it for the first time while on a romantic boat cruise with Geralt; the Witcher did all the rowing and Jaskier lounged back opposite with his lute across his lap, but that was beside the point. The easel sat at the very bottom of a steep path, with a small chest at its side, which probably contained the mystery artist’s equipment.

Jaskier made a mental note to investigate further.

When the snows cleared towards the end of the season, the beautiful, mist-wreathed views of the Blue Mountains from Geralt’s bedroom window reminded Jaskier of a painting, which in turn reminded him of his mystery artist. One afternoon, he set off on foot. When he reached the top of the path, he looked down the slope and saw someone he really didn’t expect to.

_It was Lambert._

The youngest wolf of Kaer Morhen stood with a palette in one hand and brush in the other. A leather case sat unfolded on top of the chest containing more tools of his trade; scalpels, brushes and other miscellaneous items. He was currently measuring up a perspective of something in the distance.

“Lambert!” Jaskier stood downwind, so called out to let the Witcher know of his presence. He really didn’t expect Lambert to swirl ‘round, wide-eyed, and then immediately throw his tools in the lake. Not only that, but his left hand twisted into the Sign for Igni and he set his entire piece of art on fire. The bard sprinted down the path—no mean feat, he wasn’t exactly a spiritely youth anymore—and kicked the easel into the lake.

Too late. The painting was ruined. Jaskier pulled the canvas out of the wet mud, and looked at it forlornly. “Lambert, why—?”

Lambert shook. His fists clenched. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.” The Witcher looked genuinely distressed; his teeth gritted, eyes wild. Rather than engage with Jaskier any further, he snatched up his bags and stormed away. Geralt warned Jaskier of the potential for drowners, foglets and water hags in the area, so the bard didn’t tarry.

After a little bit of prodding, some moonshine and a game of Gwent, Lambert finally opened up. He was… embarrassed. Worried. He thought that if the others found out they’d take the piss and if there was one thing he couldn’t deal with—there were quite a few, but Jaskier wasn’t brave enough to point that out—then it was someone ripping into him about a private passion. It was his. No one else’s. Something he could enjoy outside the bullshit of the Path. But it was very _un-Lambert._ It was gentle, and peaceful, and everything the Path wasn’t, and— _he just didn’t want anyone to find out, alright?_

Despite giving assurances that Eskel and Geralt really wouldn’t tease him about something he was passionate about—and deep down, the prickly wolf knew this to be true—Jaskier didn’t push Lambert to reveal his secret. Instead, he decided to support his Witcher quietly. For the following solstice Jaskier bought Lambert a present. A set of watercolours. The winter after that, he bought him a new drawing pad and some charcoal. They never talked about it and Jaskier never saw the products of his gifts. It didn’t matter. He was showing Lambert that it was good and healthy to have something just for yourself.

 _Until the fourth winter_.

Lambert approached quietly, tentatively, and placed a small square wrapped in brown paper beside Jaskier while he was basking in the fading winter sun. He left without a word. The bard set his lute aside and picked up his gift. The paper and twine fell away to reveal a beautiful watercolour; a small, full-bodied portrait of himself sat within a buttercup that took up the rest of the background. His miniature self was singing, happy and bright, with the gorgeous yellow shades reflecting the joy of a bard’s heart in full flight.

Lambert had signed it at the bottom, with a very small ‘thank you’ scrawled beneath.

The small watercolour became one of Jaskier’s most beloved possessions.


	9. Geralt & Lambert - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert gets dumped. It goes as well as to be expected..._
> 
> Song is Someone You Loved by Lewis Capaldi.

Geralt arrived at Flotsam in a bad mood. The last time he’d visited this cesspit of a town he’d saved Jaskier from hanging, almost been killed by Letho, watched an elven lieutenant die after being beaten to a pulp, oh the list just went on and on. So he wasn’t expecting his day to get much worse.

_Oh how wrong he was._

The first sign of trouble was the crowd of bloodied militia standing around the outskirts of the town, nursing bloodied noses and bruised egos. Then, as he led Roach towards the centre of the town, he heard it.

Singing. Bad singing. Off key. Really, _really_ loud.

_“It’s easy to say, but it’s never the same! I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain!”_

Geralt tied Roach off to a hitching post near the tavern and elbowed his way through the small crowd still gathered around the fountain. On its highest level—dressed in red, silk panties and chemise, with matching feather boa and lipstick—stood Lambert. He held a glass bottle aloft, and paused in his braying to take long swigs from it.

_“Now the day bleeds, into nightfall, and you’re not here, to get me through it all!”_

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to the woman standing next to him. At least she looked amused rather than frightened. “How long’s he been up there?”

“An hour or so. The watchmen tried to get him down, but he used his Witcher sorcery to throw ‘em off.”

_“I let my guard down, and then you pulled the rug, I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved!”_

“He got this drunk in a couple of hours?”

She giggled. “Oh, no. He’s been drinkin’ and shaggin’ his way through the entire brothel,” she folded her arms, “they’re callin’ him Mr All Nighter. Not a single unsatisfied woman in that place.”

_“I’m going under and this time I fear there’s no one to turn to, this all or nothing way of loving got me sleeping without you!”_

“All ni—? How much money does he owe?” Geralt rubbed a hand across his forehead, doing a quick mental inventory of how many orens he had left over.

She whistled through her teeth. “Oh, more an’ he’s worth, I tell ya’ that much.”

_“Now, I need somebody to know, somebody to heal, somebody to have, just to know how it feels, it’s easy to say but it’s never the same, I guess I kinda liked the way you helped me escape!”_

“Fuck.” Geralt seethed, and then marched past her. “Lambert!”

The other Witcher swayed briefly, clearly shocked by Geralt’s appearance. He threw out a hand and grabbed the effigy on top of the fountain by the nethers. “Oh, shit, Geralt,” Lambert swept his hand. “Welcome to Flotsam. Ladies and gentlemen, my brother.”

“Get down, you’re an embarrassment,” Geralt gritted out.

“Oh, now you sound like Vesemir,” Lambert growled, and then hiccuped, followed by a loud belch. “I always thought the hair was probably hereditary. Sure he didn’t shag your mum?”

“You have three seconds before I drag you down,” Geralt dropped his eyes as the silk panties revealed a bit too much of Lambert’s endowment. “Your cock’s falling out,” he shrugged out of his cloak and offered it up, “put this on.”

“I really wouldn’t worry, half the town’s enjoyed it by this point,” Lambert slid a hand down his chest with a wink and then glanced over his shoulder when several young women giggled from their vantage point in an upstairs window. “But, you’re right. Red’s not really my colour anyway. This arrangement’s more…” he fluttered his hand, “ _Eskel_.”

Geralt tried really hard not to imagine Eskel in silk lingerie and a feather boa. He really did. Unfortunately there were no prizes for effort and the thought gallivanted merrily across his mind and settled down to stay at the back. Brilliant.

With an agonising lack of grace, Lambert fell down from the fountain and walked right by Geralt’s offered cloak. At this distance, Geralt could see the black kohl around Lambert’s eyes too and the floral scent of perfume wafted by in his wake. “Where’re you going?”

“To get another drink.”

Geralt moved quickly and grabbed Lambert’s shoulder. “You’ve had enough.”

In hindsight, probably a poor move; Lambert swung around and his elbow missed Geralt’s face by mere inches. “I will fucking decide when I’ve had enough. Now piss off, White Wolf. Go save a princess or fuck a—,” he trailed off, drowning the next word in alcohol, with a desolate look on his face.

Oh shit.

The song. The rampant sex. The alcohol. The lack of… self-respect. Geralt sucked in a sharp breath. “She… uh, she ended it, didn’t she?”

“Yes she fucking did!” Lambert roared, flinging his empty bottle at a nearby building. “She said she couldn’t deal with me anymore. That I’m too high maintenance. Can you fucking believe it? Me! High maintenance! _FUCK_!”

Had he been a lesser man, Geralt might’ve pointed out Lambert’s current ensemble, the fact that he’d apparently beaten up a small army and fucked his way through an even bigger one, but he decided to take the high road. On this one occasion. “That’s, uh, pretty shit, I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Yeah, well, fuck her, fuck sorceresses, fuck—women, in fact, yeah, I’m gunna’ go and do more of that—,” he turned again, but this time he walked into a wall of angry looking watchmen. “Gents, I’m flattered, really. But I go for muscular, washed types… stop pointing that thing, you’ll take someone’s fuckin’ eye out.” Lambert batted at the halberd waving in his face, hiccuped again, and then eyed the man with a crossbow.

Geralt stepped in, hands up. “Look, I’ll take care of it. Everything paid up. Fines included. Just leave him with me. If you put him in a cell, you’ll—you don’t want to do that.”

Clearly men of intelligence, the watchmen agreed to leave Lambert in Geralt’s custody, with a parting ‘we know where you’re staying’. The tavern Lambert had holed himself up in was a complete dump, but they were able to provide a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth when Geralt requested it.

In the privacy of the tiny room near the rafters of the building, Lambert’s bravado evaporated. He sunk onto the pallet with his face in his hands, the only sound the occasional hiccup and shivering sigh.

“Head up.” Geralt knelt down at Lambert’s feet and took a handful of his hair to tug him upright.

“Well, fuck, if you’re offering Geralt, I won’t say no,” Lambert smirked with a flagrant gesture to his crotch, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. He sat perfectly still as Geralt wiped off the make up and revealed bruises underneath. The black and green on his hands wasn’t all dirt either, and Lambert pulled his palms out of Geralt’s grasp when he began to inspect them. “What’re you doing this far south anyway?”

“Just passing through. I hate this shithole. Bad memories.”

“Hmm.”

“There are—,” _more fish in the sea,_ “you can—,” _always find someone else,_ “she—,” _wasn’t even that nice anyway._ Each time Geralt tried to offer comfort, the words died in his throat.

“Fuck, don’t hurt yourself.” Lambert shook his head. “Look… just do a runner. I’ll deal with this bullshit in the morning. They’ll probably just put me in the stocks for a few days and I’ll pretend I can’t just break out of ‘em.”

“What kinda’ brother would I be if I left you alone feeling like this?”

“An intelligent one,” Lambert replied blithely. “Fuck, let me get this shit off, I think the knickers are constricting my bollocks.”

Geralt moved aside so that Lambert could stumble from the bed and pull the underwear off. He swirled the feather boa theatrically before casting it across the back of the chair.

“Was she your first?”

“Second.” Lambert didn’t look up from his bags.

“Who was the—?” Geralt bit it off, but not quickly enough. He should’ve known. Should’ve thought. Now he’d just poured White Gull in a gaping wound.

“Aiden,” Lambert turned with his shirt in his hand, and tried for humour. “I really have the shittest lu—luck.” People thought that Witchers didn’t cry. No tear ducts, apparently. Geralt always asked them how they thought Witchers got by without being able to naturally clean or protect their eyes and left them to mull it over. Either way, they never did it in public. Reputation and all that. And Lambert was crushing it beneath anger and self-loathing.

_Enough of that._

Geralt stepped forward and encircled him in a crushing hug. Partly through self-protection, and partly through a desire to show Lambert that there was someone—more than one, in fact—to hold him up when he couldn’t do it himself. “It’s alright, it’s—it will be.”

“I’m just—so fucking tired, Geralt,” Lambert husked, not bothering to fight him off. “So fucking tired.”

They stood in each other’s arms until the noise in the tavern died down, and then Geralt tugged Lambert over to the bed. The mattress was hard and the blankets scratchy, but it didn’t matter; Lambert curled to Geralt’s chest, “You know, I was perfectly fucking loveable before Vesemir brought me to Kaer Morhen.”

“You’ve said.”

“Now I’m just… I’m just not. Never will be.”

Geralt held Lambert close. It was like looking into a mirror—a slightly cracked one, with a serious amount of weathering and an attitude problem to rival that of a striga’s—but a mirror nonetheless. It had taken years—years—of his loved ones telling him he was worth something— _we love you, Geralt_ —until the diatribe of self-hate in his head faded. Lambert didn’t have a Jaskier, or a Yen, or a Triss, or a Ciri, or a Zoltan, or a Regis… he had Eskel, Vesemir and Geralt.

“I love you.” Geralt murmured. “Prickles and everything.”

“Oh fuck off. All that wine is making you soft,” Lambert said, with his words. But the arms that tightened, and the face that turned, and the heart that calmed; they all said something completely different. “Go to sleep before I puke.”

Geralt smiled. “Night, little wolf.”


	10. Lambert/Aiden - Araglas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aiden ties Lambert up for punishment..._

“Can you still feel your hands?” Aiden tickled Lambert’s palms and sat back on his chest.

“Yeah,” Lambert wiggled his fingers to further illustrate his point; the movement shimmied the full length of his body until he was writhing beneath Aiden’s hips.

“Stay still.”

“Yes, _sir_.”

“You’ve been a massive pain in the ass all winter.” Aiden shuffled a little lower and slid a finger down the centre of Lambert’s chest, teasing swirls through his chest hair. “You put lil’ Bleater on the roof and upset Eskel; you Aard-ed Geralt’s bard and you put Vesemir’s underwear on a flagpole.”

“Ooh, yeah, I’ve been a really bad boy.”

“Ready for your punishment?”

“Yes, so ready. So fucking ready, Aiden.”

The Cat took a deep breath and leaned forward. “You’re such a gentle man, so full of love and affection.”

“Wait—.”

“All your emotions and needs are valid.”

“No, stop.”

“I love you so much. You’re so beautiful.”

“ _Aiden_.” Lambert whimpered.

“You deserve to be cared for, loved and looked after.”

“I need a fucking safe word!”

“I’m going to make love to you so gently you’ll cry.”

“No! Geralt! Eskel! I’m being tortured, fucking— _help_!“ Lambert squawked and tugged at the restraints, and then gazed up with wide, meek eyes as Aiden sat back on his heels. Lambert’s lower lip quivered once, and he wiggled again, arousal nudging the curves of Aiden’s ass.

The Cat grinned. “Feels good, doesn’t it?

“…yes.”

“You going to be nice to everyone now?”

“Yes…”

Aiden tickled his fingers through his Wolf’s beard. “Such a good puppy.”


	11. Eskel/Jaskier - Witchering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel takes Thunderbolt to finish a fight and Jaskier suffers the consequences..._

Koshchey didn’t occur naturally, but as a result of magical experiments. They were large arachnids, several meters long and covered in a hard, chitinous carapace, armed with a pair of powerful pincers and sharp spines. The exact method of creating one - thankfully - was a closely guarded secret, although Eskel theorised that it mostly involved stimulating a regular uropygid until it reached an enormous size.

A koshchey was a killing machine. Easily capable of shredding a horse instantly, along with its rider. To date, only two had ever been made.

_To date._

Of course, Eskel was the Witcher to discover that some idiot sorcerer had now doubled that number. In the crumbling halls of a ruined abbey, he found himself pinned down and exhausted. Having killed one, the other - clearly linked somehow - had gone into a feral rage. Hopped up on Cat, Blizzard, Rook and Tawny Owl, Eskel was already at his limit. He had to long it out until his toxicity level reduced enough to take the one potion he hated. 

_Thunderbolt._

It was as close to a blood rage as Witchers could get. _Everything increased._ Blood flow, strength, stamina, speed, but it came at a price. _Fury._ Unchecked. Unrelenting. Eskel only ever used Thunderbolt when he was far away from civilisation. And when Jaskier wasn’t close. He was about a mile away at camp. _Safe._

Eskel rolled behind a pillar just as those ferocious pincers shattered through the stone of the floor he was standing on moments before. He tore the vial from a pouch across his chest, ripped the cork out with his teeth and knocked it back. The heat spread through him like the pyroclastic flow of an erupting volcano; an inferno that seared his veins and blistered his heart. 

Blackened eyes widened and he leapt out from his hiding place. One of the pincers sliced down towards his chest, but he caught it before the tip reached his gambeson. With Thunderbolt and Rook raging through him simultaneously, he had enough strength to tear the limb in half.

After that, it felt like the fight was over in the blink of an eye. Eskel’s body should be - _actually was_ \- exhausted. Every muscle screamed, every bone felt brittle, his eyes burned, his lungs raw. But Thunderbolt wasn’t finished with him. The rage still howled in his head and Eskel - the calm, kind-hearted, mature Witcher - tore through the carapace of the koshchey with his bare hands, howling like a man possessed. Blood spattered his armour, his skin, but he knew this was the right way. Out here, no one would feel his wrath.

_Just Jaskier._

The bard, having grown concerned as Eskel’s hunt lasted far longer than he’d indicated, emerged through the archway. He could hear Eskel screaming so obviously he abandoned caution to the wind and threw himself headfirst into danger. As he rounded a fractured pillar, he saw his Witcher covered in blood, buried in a corpse and assumed the worst. “Eskel!”

 _No. No no no no._ Eskel’s inner voice screamed in mortification, but the beast on the surface bristled with pleasure. He abandoned the corpse and closed the distance between them in four easy strides. Jaskier should’ve been frightened; he should’ve tried to run or recoil, but he didn’t. Because Jaskier was used to Witchers with eyes of bottomless obsidian and pulsing dark veins. To him, it didn’t mean fear, it meant a Witcher in need of help.

_Run. Please run. Run._

The voice was so distant. The real Eskel buried beneath a roiling mass of uncontrollable bloodlust. His fingers constricted Jaskier’s throat and lifted him effortlessly from the floor.

“Eskel… please… it’s me…” Jaskier wheezed, fingers clawing at the gloved hand choking him. He spasmed and kicked, but it did nothing to loosen the Witcher’s grip.

Soft skin turned from light, sun-tanned honey to a choked, pale blue. His lips opened and closed noiselessly, blue eyes fluttering. And still Eskel’s hand tightened. His own lungs pumped his breaths out through gritted teeth, spittle flinging free of his curled lip.

“E - Eskel,” barely a whisper. A last, desperate plea as Jaskier’s vision edged in black.

**_Stop._ **

It felt like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his head. The fire in his veins chilled to ice and his fingers loosened immediately. The bard dropped to the floor, gasping and coughing. Eskel, amber spidering through the black of his eyes, sank to his knees. “Jaskier, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he half sobbed; the devastation twisted through his chest, rising like bile in the back of his mouth. When he reached out, Jaskier flinched instinctively and Eskel’s heart shattered into pieces.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier rasped. Black and blue bruises the shape of Eskel’s fingers were already blooming around the smooth column of his throat; the Witcher stared at them, crushed. “Let’s… get back… to camp. White Honey.”

Eskel dared not touch Jaskier. He fought every instinct that made him want to grab his bard and cradle him to his chest. No, he didn’t deserve it. _Didn’t deserve Jaskier._

_Look at what you’ve done, beast._

Two days later, Jaskier tried to sing. His voice crumpled in his throat and the verbose bard devolved into a coughing fit that made his entire body shake. Eskel ran to his side and Jaskier grabbed his arm for support. His throat was damaged. 

_Eskel had taken Jaskier’s voice from him._

“It’s not permanent, dear heart,” Jaskier petted his hair gently. “Just needs time to heal.”

It didn’t matter, because a harrowing realisation occured to Eskel that night. He finally understood why Geralt had abandoned Jaskier on that mountainside all those years ago. It wasn’t the Path or the contracts, the dangerous sorceresses or the murderous royalty, that Geralt tried to protect Jaskier from. 

_No._

_All of that paled compared to the monster that walked at his side._

The monster that swore to protect him, that laughed with him, drank ale and played cards with him; the monster that pretended to be his friend, his lover, but had stolen his song and nearly his life. 

_Eskel finally understood why Geralt sent Jaskier away._

He wrote a letter, the kind and gentle words of farewell as hollow as his soul; he placed a final, parting kiss upon a sleeping face that turned to him with a soft smile, and left the inn the following morning. 

_Alone._


	12. Lambert/Eskel - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _New facial scars and a shitty session in a stable knock Lambert’s self-esteem, but Eskel is the balm for all of Lambert’s wounds…_

It was bound to happen eventually. Every Witcher in Kaer Morhen had scars on their face. Shit, some of them were missing noses and ears. By all accounts, Lambert got off light. The werewolf raked down the right side of his face, narrowly falling short of ripping out his eye on the way through. It took three weeks for the wounds to heal properly. The first week he couldn’t take any contracts because the dressing obscured his sight, so by the second he was desperately hungry.

The necrophage nests provided enough coin for food, but weakened and slow, Lambert took a beating. The bruises, the bite mark, the cuts. They all took time to heal as well. When he rolled up to Red Port, he was in a seriously shitty mood. Usually when such moods took him, he did one of two things after getting drunk: brawled, or fucked. A brawl was out of the question. Everything fucking ached, which meant a good fuck was on the cards.

He didn’t have the coin for even a streetwalker, and no woman would touch him without payment, so that left the riskier sport of identifying a willing male partner. Red Port was good for it. Coastal or river side towns attracted drifters of all kinds—not just Witchers—and you were more likely to take risks where there were no roots to bind you to repercussions. 

Once his head was pleasantly hazy but his wits still sharp enough, Lambert inspected the various prospects around the tavern. The key was a handkerchief or strip of fabric in the back pocket. He was looking for someone wearing it on the left, and it was his lucky night because one such individual currently lounged at the bar nearby. Lambert left his drink and slipped into a stool at his side. Smelled clean, looked fairly handsome, with an angular jaw and clear eyes. The negotiations were hushed and discreet. It didn’t take much; Witchers were immune to venereal diseases so Lambert was probably the cleanest fuck this guy would ever have. 

No names were exchanged and soon Lambert was pressed up against the wall of the stable, clean straw shuffling beneath his feet as eager, biting kisses laced down his neck. His swords and belts clattered to the floor, along with a few bulkier pieces of his armour, and a broad palm groped down the front of his braies. His cock sprang free, beads of precome chill in the cold night air, and he let out the quietest moan as his chosen tryst got the pressure just right for about thirty seconds. “Slick’s in my pocket.” Because if this dickhead thought he was using spit, then he could go snap his prick off in a vice.

Lambert’s eyes slid closed as the contact disappeared momentarily, a fumbling hand yanking the tin from folds of fabric. He transported himself back to Kaer Morhen and imagined the thick cock pressed to the curve of his ass was Eskel’s. There was really no comparison—Eskel was hung like a fucking dragon, and the guy currently grunting into his shoulder in desperate need was only slightly above average—but Lambert could be fucking creative when he wanted to be. 

His trousers slid down his thighs and two fingers pushed inside without ceremony; he clenched his teeth and growled into the wall, relishing the burn of it. There was always so much when Eskel took him the first time during the winter; no matter how far he spread his legs, or how relaxed he was, the first few inches of that glorious beast split him down the middle and made him sob in anguished pleasure. A few fluttering touches caught his prostate and he sighed with slightly forced enjoyment. This was already a poor fuck, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

It was easy to imagine his scent. The deep rumble of his voice, the firm grasp of his hands at Lambert’s hips and the hard muscle of his barrelled chest beneath a needy grip. Lambert muffled his moan as the man behind him finally replaced his fingers with his cock; it was a smooth glide right to the hilt. “Fuck, Witcher, you feel so good.” 

_Oh shit, he was a talker._

Lambert rolled his eyes in irritation and then with a flicker of pleasure as his companion moved his hips. Unfortunately, _the talking didn’t stop._ “Oh yeah, yeah, so good, so good.” His voice was high-pitched and nasally; it’d been hard to evaluate in the general din of the tavern. Lambert tried to ignore him, focus on the drive of his cock and angle his hips to try and get it near his sweet spot, but it kept fucking coming, and it wasn’t even _good_ filth…

“I bet you love this, don’t you? Just a hole to be fucked.” Panted, probably trying to come across as sultry. One hand left his hip and suddenly Lambert’s face shoved into the wall. The still tender scars on his face burned in pain. “A little whore. That’s all Witchers are. Buckets for come, aren’t they?” 

_Buckets… for come._ Lambert growled, his temper simmering deep in his chest. His body clenched with it, but his companion took it as enjoyment. “Mmm, yeah, you like it when I treat you rough?” His fingers tightened, nails biting into Lambert’s already bruised and battered skin. “Such a little slut. Bet an ugly piece of shit like you is grateful for any scrap he can get. My prick’s like a fucking gift.” 

An elbow connected with his sternum seconds later, and he buckled over. Even with his trousers around his knees, Lambert turned fluidly to snatch his lover turned assailant by the throat and slam him up against the wall. His fingers squeezed—not even that hard considering the full spectrum of his strength—and the human in his grasp began to turn blue. The Witcher shook with rage, the origin lost in a blistering wave of heat rising from his chest. It was only the residual memories of Eskel that pulled him back from the brink of murder. His gentle hands, his gentler voice; _he’s not worth it_. Lambert dropped his would-be victim, who coughed and sputtered at his feet. “Get out. If you tell anyone, I’ll make sure you hang for buggery at my side.” 

Lambert didn’t bother to watch as the drifter skittered away. He braced his forearm against the stable wall, allowing himself a moment to deal with the rising bile in the back of his throat, before he righted his clothing and snatched his equipment from the floor. The scars didn’t bother him. _They fucking didn’t._ Just one shitty lay. It happened.

_He didn’t try again._

Three weeks later, he ran into Eskel in Hagge. The town sat on the cusp of Redania, so it wasn’t a huge surprise. Eskel had just got back from hunting arachas in the Mahakham mountains and Lambert was following a lead on something ‘big and scary’—humans were so fucking unhelpful sometimes—just outside the town’s borders. Excitement at seeing Eskel outside of winter quickly faded to apprehension when Lambert realised the state he was in; scarred, bruised and poorly fed. The older wolf took one look at his face—gaunt, exhausted—and herded him upstairs into a room. After some food, Eskel finally embraced him.

Lambert nearly disintegrated completely the first time one of those big hands cupped his jaw and tilted his head. He allowed Eskel to inspect the new scars on his face, somewhat self-conscious in the presence of such a ruggedly handsome visage. The words of stable-fuckboy drifted to the forefront of his mind and his shoulders hunched. “Lambert, look at me.” A soft, deep rumble that caressed Lambert’s ears and he looked up into eyes of golden honey. “They still hurt?”

“Yeah, bit, nothin’ I can’t handle,” Lambert sniffed, and then gasped when soft lips pressed to his eyebrow. It didn’t stop there though. Those tender kisses traced every mark on his face and, after a wash in the tepid water provided by the inn, Eskel laid him out on the bed and kissed every bruise. He started at Lambert’s collarbone and a mottled yellow-green circle almost fully healed, moved down his chest to ghost chaste licks across his ribs and Lambert’s fingers clutched needily in his hair. “Ah, Eskel. Fuck.”

“Gonna’ make you feel good, little wolf, just relax,” he whispered, hot breath puffing across Lambert’s navel and then his prick, already flushed, erect and eager for the warm mouth that descended over it. The filthy sound of Eskel’s mouth working down Lambert’s shaft accompanied by low purrs of enjoyment; Eskel was just as pleased to have found his lover on the Path after months of isolation.

The sheets bunched in his fist as Lambert clutched at them for purchase, balancing on the precipice of release as Eskel’s tongue crested over his head, tip pressing into the slit in search of his unique taste, before burying his nose to Lambert’s groin, cock sliding down his throat. Another growl of pleasure sparked Lambert’s orgasm, and he arched off the bed as Eskel drank it greedily. As his vision cleared, Lambert found those two warm eyes waiting for him, and he tilted his head back in bliss as Eskel nosed along his jaw, tongue lapping into the arch of his ear. 

Eskel was like the warm light of a sunrise across a receding tide. It was impossible to resist the current of him as he carried you along, lulled by the warmth and brightness of his love, held up on the strength of those broad shoulders. In these moments when they were together, Lambert abandoned his defences, stripping himself bare in more ways than one, and just basked in the glow of Eskel’s adoration. His arms wrapped around broad shoulders as he was lifted from the bed, legs latching just above narrow hips. A slick finger pushed inside him, it went straight for all the right places and soon Lambert’s prick was stirring from its rest.

The first was joined by a second, and then a third, and Lambert gyrated on them with wanton abandon. He clutched onto Eskel’s shoulders and pressed himself into that broad chest, nose tucked beneath an unshaven jaw to bathe in the heady scent of him. “Eskel, _please._ C’mon.”

“Take it easy,” Eskel nudged him affectionately, fingers withdrawing to circle his own cock and lift it to Lambert’s hole. His other hand remained splayed beneath Lambert’s rear, preventing him from spearing himself too quickly. The slow, beautiful ache of every inch pressing in was worth it. Lambert moaned into Eskel’s neck, body tremoring as it split wide to accommodate the outrageous girth of such a glorious cock. The only one he ever wanted—ever _needed_ —that filled him and stretched him in all the right ways. Lambert could hear Eskel’s breath catching, his sighs of bliss as he sank into a familiar, hot tightness he knew was ravenous for him. “Oh, Lambert. My beautiful boy. My love, I’ve missed you. I’ve wanted you so badly.”

 _And he meant it. He fucking meant it._

Lambert felt tears well at the corners of his eyes, but he could hide it in the sweat beading on his forehead as their shared body heat skyrocketed. Eskel held himself fully sheathed, both hands holding Lambert’s body still. The first joining was always his favourite; for Eskel, Lambert was home. More than Kaer Morhen, more than Geralt and Vesemir, more than the faded memories of a distant hillside village. It was the angry, prickly bastard in his arms, with a heart as soft and as gentle as a pup’s fur.

When Eskel began moving inside him, it was permission for Lambert to lose himself in their own personal heaven. The soft pants of ecstacy punctuated by lower moans as a spark exploded into a flame, stoked ever higher with each deep thrust. Their rhythm was so practiced, so known, they didn’t even need to think. Lambert rocked and circled his hips under the guidance of Eskel’s hands, arms tightening around his shoulders and teeth and nails left their claiming marks. The head of Lambert’s cock thrust through the dusky hair on Eskel’s stomach and chest, leaving wet smears of longing in its wake. 

Lambert’s orgasm spread through him without warning—unrestrained, irrefutable—and it left him shuddering and weak, hanging onto Eskel’s shoulders for anchorage as his lover continued to lift him, thrusting up into his stretched, puffy hole even as it fluttered and clenched through aftershocks. “Eskel, _Eskel,_ fuck—ahh, ahh.” It was almost too much. Too raw. The glide across his prostate relentless, and then the final, magnificent stretch as Eskel pushed in deep to come. A low moan hummed into Lambert’s neck along with the bite of possessive teeth. Lambert tensed and relaxed, pulsating around Eskel’s quivering prick until he’d milked every last drop.

They unspooled across the bed, drunk on the scent of their release. Lambert sprawled across Eskel’s chest and closed his eyes as thick fingers combed through his hair, leaving it mussed and spiked in all directions. He wanted to lay like that forever, with the solid foundation of Eskel’s chest beneath him, the thunder of his heart bigger in scope and size than the fucking moon filling his head. The worries of the world receded. The callous words of Lambert’s stable tryst faded along with it. With Eskel, he felt valued. _Wanted._ Reflected in Eskel’s eyes, the colour of warm summer mead and laughter, Lambert was… worthy. Fuck, Eskel thought he was beautiful. Even with the scars, inside and out. 

_But they couldn’t stay._

Because they were Witchers and the Path called them back.

It still felt too soon when Eskel began to pull away and Lambert suddenly clung to him. “No,” it came out like a stuttered sob, “please, don’t leave me. Not yet.”

Eskel returned and tilted Lambert’s head back. Those warm eyes saw the hurt, and the uncertainty. They saw through the anger to the desperate need for affection. The new scars on Lambert’s face were just a physical representation of the thousands already marring his heart and soul. So Eskel reached for the blankets, pulled Lambert close to his side and told him just how beautiful and loved he was. 

Several decades later, when Eskel screamed in agony upon waking for the first time after Deidre’s attack, his face irreparably damaged, Lambert would be there too. To soothe and kiss away the pain. To tell him how beautiful he was and how loved. And when Eskel sobbed through a torn lip and broken teeth, “please don’t leave me.” Lambert would hold him close and whisper in his ear.

“Never will.”


	13. Lambert/Eskel - Tnico

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s an average winter at Kaer Morhen and Lambert helps Eskel forget the world outside…_

Lambert poked idly at the crumbling logs in the fireplace as they spat and crackled. The weather had turned as it always did during long, dark winters in Morhen Valley, and the remaining members of the School of Wolf were trapped in their keep to while away the time dozing, reading and doing small menial chores. It was evening now. The sun long gone behind the tallest peaks of the Blue Mountains to the west, the wind howling and the snow blanketing the landscape in endless white.

After a quick freshen up, Lambert had wandered into Eskel’s room to find him sprawled out in just his grey shirt. The book he’d been reading—on closer inspection, something about zeugl and other miscellaneous nasties—open over his big chest as it rose and fell in sleep. On the Path, there was no chance on the gods’ green Continent that you could sneak up on a sleeping Witcher, but in the safety of Kaer Morhen Eskel had fallen into a deep, restful slumber.

His shirt had ridden up, hem draped high over muscular thighs and the gorgeous curve of his prick, impressive even in its flaccid state. His medallion sat low on his thick chest, tilted into the valley down the middle amidst a smattering of dark hair. Even asleep, Eskel was a work of fucking art and he was the only one alive that didn’t realise it.

The sputter of fire must’ve roused him, because he stirred while Lambert admired him from afar. “Welcome back, sleeping beauty.”

“Mmrph,” Eskel huffed as he rolled over onto his side and Lambert was treated to a nice view of his ass. It was muscular, round and just begging to be worshipped, Lambert drew his tongue over his teeth as his fingers twitched at his side. Well, since he was offering.

“C’mere.”

One rich amber eye popped open, pupil blown wide. Those full lips parted and a dark eyebrow arched. “Is that an order, sir?” 

“Fucking right it is,” Lambert tucked the iron poker away and pointed at the thick bearskin rug at his feet. Eskel uncurled from the bed, the heel of one hand rubbing into his eye, and drifted over without further question; Lambert smoothed a hand through sleep-ruffled hair once his lover drew level. Even after a month of having Eskel at his beck and call—within reason—the novelty hadn’t worn off. It hadn’t worn off the last fifty years, and it wouldn’t in the next fifty either. Flat hands ran over broad shoulders and down an equally wide chest, soft hair tickling his palms as they dipped beneath that linen shirt.

Lambert liked the way it hung off him, rolled up to his elbows to reveal thick, scarred forearms, loose enough to drape over sculpted collarbones but not enough to disguise the thickening erection nudging up at the hem. The head drooled a single bead of precome and Lambert smeared his forefinger through it in a wide circle, smiling at the quiet hitch of a gasp. “So needy.” He whispered, without bite to his tone. “On your knees.” 

As his bear of a lover sank down to the rug, Lambert tugged open the ties of his trousers, shuffling booted feet out of the way so that Eskel’s knees could splay nice and wide. That thick chest was heaving a little more now, Eskel’s full lips parted as his eyes followed each flick of Lambert’s fingers. “You’re going to hold nice and still, big guy,” Lambert purred as he pulled his cock free; it stirred quickly to full hardness as Eskel tilted forward eagerly. “Hands behind your back, I don’t want you touching yourself.”

The wounded look was for show. When they first started this, Lambert had almost begged forgiveness at the slightest little pout—Eskel did ‘kicked puppy’ so fucking well, the asshole—but now he just raised a brow, expecting obedience. Ploy for leniency foiled, Eskel grasped his own wrist behind his back while Lambert took his chin and guided him forward.

“Look at you, with your pretty eyes and your pretty mouth,” Lambert murmured, sweeping the head of his cock over Eskel’s lower lip, his own between his teeth. A cheeky tongue flicked out to lap over his slit and he tilted Eskel’s head back abruptly. “Ah, ah, no. Do as you’re told. Mouth open. No moving.” His fingers tightened just a fraction to emphasise his point and Eskel’s jaw fell slack obediently. “Well done, big guy. I know you want to be good for me. You’re always so good, so sweet.” 

Eskel’s pupils blew wide at the praise and Lambert watched goosebumps flourish briefly over his skin from the just the contact of his fingers. Panting breaths splashed over the head of Lambert’s cock as he rested it teasingly on Eskel’s lower lip, a test of his own patience as much as Eskel’s. His beautiful wolf’s jaw remained relaxed in his hand and he slowly eased forward, dragging the bottom of his head over a wet tongue; Eskel’s lips stretched around the girth of his shaft, stuttering breaths drawn through his nose as his eyes wavered. “Keep looking at me,” Lambert said, fighting to keep the husk of need from his voice as he started to slowly fuck into Eskel’s mouth. “Good. Well done. Such a good wolf.” 

A quiet groan rumbled up the length of Lambert’s cock as tender words twisted Eskel into proverbial knots of pleasure; he loved being told what a good boy he was. A lifetime of expectation and legacy weighed on Eskel’s shoulders, and Lambert could lighten that burden for a few precious months. He watched now as his glistening prick disappeared inside an eager mouth, nudging the boundary of Eskel’s throat each time, knowing full well it’d open obediently to him should he demand it. Despite the slow pace, the wet, willing heat was building Lambert quickly and he paused every now and then, head settled lightly on pliant lips, to regather himself. 

Because this wasn’t about him, it was about Eskel. It was about the way his submission melted all the remaining tension from his shoulders, made his eyes fade into hazy softness; it was about the occasional needy thrust of his hips into empty air as his cock dribbled profusely onto the rug below it. Lambert kept his pace slow, lulling Eskel deeper into his weightless drift, until he couldn’t restrain himself any longer. His hand slipped up and gripped in Eskel’s hair, forcing his face to the left to reveal the valleys of scars on the right. Lambert painted them in hot spurts of come, his head pressed in just above the notch in his upper lip. Claiming that handsome mug as his.

“Up.” He tugged and Eskel stumbled shakily to his feet, moaning, low and deep, as Lambert’s tongue licked through the peaks of sensitive pink skin on his face. Clever fingers wrapped around the twitching length of his cock. “Fuck, you’re so wet, leaking fucking everywhere. Was gonna’ take you, but don’t wanna’ waste all this.” Lambert released his grip on ebony locks and pushed Eskel back towards the bed with just the hand wrapped around his length. “Lay down, don’t move.”

Lambert threw his clothes onto the floor, doing his level best to appear calm and collected as he snatched the grapeseed oil from the top of Eskel’s bedside cabinet and then climbed on top of him. Ever obedient, Eskel hadn’t moved a muscle, only followed Lambert’s progress with his eyes and he continued to watch, rapt, as Lambert smeared his fingers with oil and then began to spread himself open. “Like what you see, big guy?”

“Yes,” Eskel spoke, throat hoarse. 

“Want me to ride your fat cock?”

“Yes.”

“Beg me.”

“Lambert, please, _please_ – I want you – so bad,” Eskel didn’t even hesitate, the veins on his cock bulging, shaft twitching with every filthy squelch of Lambert’s fingers as they pushed inside. “Ride me, please.” 

“Gonna’ come in me? Fill me up?” Lambert shuffled up Eskel’s thighs and guided his cock into place; he bit his lower lip as the head pushed inside his rim, stretching him open. 

“ _Yeah, please, please._ ” Eskel’s low growl of a voice pulled taut into a desperate whine, his whole body shaking with the restraint of keeping himself still as Lambert slowly sank down onto him. His hands lifted from the bed and hovered over the muscular thighs straddling his hips.

“Ah, ah.” Lambert shook his head and pinned Eskel’s wrists above his head. At this angle it took a little bit of negotiation to get Eskel rubbing in all the right places as he began to move. “Ahh, fuck. You hit all the good spots, Eskel. So fucking big. Fuck, yeah, yeah.” He dipped his head and lapped the beads of sweat gathering on Eskel’s chest, tracing the chain of his medallion until he took the amulet in his mouth. It was blindingly fucking good; the feel of him, the smell of him, the taste. Eskel was a feast for the senses; his every moan and flex another brush stroke on a masterpiece.

Wide eyes dark with lust watched Lambert in awe, broad shoulders heaving, strong fingers clenching into fits as Eskel drew close. “Come on, big guy. Pump me—full. I want to feel—ahh, nn—it drip out of me, then I’m going to finger myself until I come.” Lambert ground in a salacious little figure of eight, muscles clamping down and Eskel arched off the bed with a bitten off moan. A growl of triumph rumbled loose from Lambert’s chest and he rolled his hips until Eskel stuttered a plea for mercy.

Lambert clambered forward and released the wrists in his grasp, Eskel’s cock slid free with a delicious slurp only to be replaced moments later by three of Lambert’s fingers. “Fuck, you always leave me gaping,” Lambert breathed heavily through his nose; the angle wasn’t perfect for it, but he was so tightly strung that even the lightest flutter across his prostate sent shocks up his spine. He gripped his cock with the other hand and came again with a few erratic tugs, marking Eskel’s chest just as he had his face. His shaking hand dropped from his shaft and two fingers smeared through the milky pool beside a perked nipple, then pushed the past Eskel’s lips. “You’re fucking perfect, Eskel. And you’re mine.”

The wolf suckled on the fingers in his mouth, amber eyes lidded, and rumbled a delighted purr of agreement. 

_Lambert had never loved someone so fucking much._


	14. Lambert/Aiden - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Modern AU. Aiden’s in America for a conference with some shareholders, but distance means nothing when you’ve got a husband to dote on…_

Rule 1. No masturbation. None. I’ll know.

_Cruel. Very cruel. But doable._

Rule 2. Evening update on feelings. Honesty, no hiding.

_Urgh. For fuck’s sake, Aiden._

Rule 3. Available for play on Friday.

_That one was easy, who didn’t like phone sex with their husband anyway?_

Rule 4. Self care. Provide evidence of speaking to other human beings–specified because Virtute didn’t count–every day. To be presented as part of “feelings” conversation.

_Eskel counted as a human being. So did his twi– ahh, boyfriend. Even Geralt. That one was easy._

Rule 5. If you break any of the above rules, I’ll wax you. All of you.

_…you fucking sadist._

Lambert had been a _good boy._ It didn’t matter that his balls felt like they were punching him repeatedly in the throat, or that a simple picture of Aiden in swimming shorts with cut abs and a tan gave him a boner that lasted for an hour and a half. This was all manageable. He’d met Eskel for a J2O and a jam session; he’d walked the dog with Geralt and every evening he reported on Operation Emotional Development.

Now it was Friday and Lambert sat on their bed with the list of items Aiden had specified; the ‘Hush’ butt plug, the vibrator in the shape of his husband’s cock and some lube. Nothing outrageous. Although that butt plug was… well, it and Lambert had a hate-love relationship. Aiden also specified freshly showered and groomed, with tousled hair and moisturised skin; Lambert had no idea how he’d tell the last one, but he liked pleasing Aiden so he managed to figure out which cream went where.

The plug had to be in before Aiden called so Lambert threw himself onto his back, squeezed a palmful of lube out of the bottle and set to work. Aiden would spend ages working him up to it, but Lambert lacked the patience and was soon twisting it into place with a slight grimace.

During their last conversation, he’d confessed feelings of inadequacy. It always happened when Aiden went away. Without the easy kisses, embraces and whispered ‘I love yous’ that topped up his self-esteem, Lambert ebbed low. Looking in the mirror became difficult, he started eyeing the scales even though by all medical standards he was in peak physical condition and began wearing sunglasses and a beanie when out because of the state of his face.

Aiden had spotted the aforementioned hat on the coffee table during their call, which sparked the conversation in the first place. Now Lambert remained sprawled out on the bed, restless, as the clock ticked over to 7pm. Punctual as always, Aiden’s profile picture popped up on FaceTime and Lambert answered. “Hey.”

“Evening, kitten,” Aiden grinned, green eyes bright. “How was your day?”

“Good, work, home, watched Justice League, you know, where they computer edit out that moustache and it looks bad,” Lambert gave the thumbs up. “You?”

“Meetings, usual stuff, been looking forward to this,” Aiden was drinking in the sight of his husband on the iPad screen, desperate to have him in his arms, but they were several hundred miles apart. “Did you do everything I asked?”

“Showered, moisturised, plugged,” Lambert gave the thumbs up. “And my balls feel like granite, so… there’s that too.”

“You’re so good for me,” Aiden purred and Lambert felt the heat rise up his chest. _Yeah, he was._ “Put the phone on the cabinet at the foot of the bed and lay down on your back. I don’t want you to move unless I tell you to.”

“Alright…” Easy enough. He propped the phone against a half-empty bottle of cologne; it gave Aiden a full view of his body–from the top of his head to his toes–as he sprawled back out again. Not quite sure how to lay appropriately, Lambert rested his arms down at his side and waited.

_And waited._

His fingers twitched. His tongue darted out over his lips as his mouth grew dry. The flush rose up his neck to the tips of his ears. There was a tumultuous heat beneath his skin. He wanted to do something to earn praise, but was being forced to do nothing. “Aiden?”

“Yes, kitten?”

“Is… have I done something wrong?”

“No, you’re perfect,” Aiden tilted his head; Lambert could see his smile. “I want to touch you, worship you with my hands and show you just how beautiful you are, but I can’t. So you’re going to have to do it for me.”

“You want me to wank?”

“Eventually. We’re going to start at the top. Lift your hands, I want you to run your fingers through your hair, gentle circles on your scalp, exactly the way I do,” Aiden waited as Lambert’s hands lifted tentatively from the mattress and smoothed back his fluffy hair. “Good, I love stroking your hair when your head’s in my lap. You always look so at peace, so beautiful. You like your eyebrows stroked too, run your thumbs over them.”

It was awkward at first. Lambert didn’t touch himself like this. Masturbation was always rough and quick, washing efficient; he certainly didn’t pet his own hair and down his own throat as if he caressed a lover, but every time he moved onto a new area Aiden told him why he loved touching him there, what he saw, how Lambert looked. Nothing escaped. Not the scars down the right side of his face, his beard, his lips. Aiden made him explore everything, made him listen to a liturgy of love for every part.

Fingertips ghosted down his neck, across his collarbone and shoulders - “so strong, I love the way they flex” - and by the time Lambert reached his chest, circling the hard peaks of his nipples, he was breathless. His own fingers seemed to conjure sparks, every contact sending out ripples of pleasure that made him all the more sensitive for the next, until every inch of skin prickled with sensation. Aiden’s voice, deep and husky, associated with safety and care, lulled him slowly towards a blissful headspace.

_You’re beautiful, so handsome, such a good boy for me, you’ve done everything I’ve asked, I’m so proud of you, love you so much. This is how I see you. This is how you’re going to see yourself._

Lambert’s cock was full and swollen, he could feel its heat against his thigh, but he was in no rush to get there, because it was Aiden touching him, and Aiden wanted to worship the grooves in his abdomen, the slant of muscle over his hips, the crest of his thighs. His hands were on autopilot, the rest of Lambert’s mind focused on the swell of ecstasy passing over his body beneath them. When Aiden told him to grab the lube he groped blindly, uncoordinated, and hissed as the chill oil spread out over his groin. The first slide of his palm made him arch; he was on a hair trigger, his prick quivering in his fingers as he stroked at the dictated pace.

He’d almost forgotten about the plug, so when Aiden tapped the app on his phone Lambert coiled like a spring, moaning loudly into the empty bedroom, as the vibrations rocketed up his spine. “Aiden, fuck, _oh fuck._ ”

“Good boy. Spread your legs for me, stroke your balls, your thighs, I want to see. Don’t come yet, hold on for a little while longer.”

“Nnngh-ahh,” Lambert writhed. It felt amazing. The slide of his own skin, the touch of his own hand; he squeezed the muscles of his thighs and palmed the weight of his balls without guidance, every caress like liquid fire. The grooves of his abdomen felt _so good_ and he flexed into his own touch, relishing the firm ripple of muscle, even as his other palm continued to strip his cock.

“Do you remember how good your chest felt? Touch it again–good–tell me how beautiful you are.”

“I’m… beautiful,” Lambert gasped. _“Aiden, please.”_

“How much are you worth to me?”

“More ‘an… the world.” Lambert stuttered more, pleasure cresting to a painful tension.

“How much do I love you?”

“Lots.” A desperate whine; his hand stuttering as the plug in his ass intensified.

“Come for me, Lambert.”

The sound Lambert let out wasn’t quite human, he was certain. Something between a growl, a shout and a whimper. His cock exploded in his hand, come erupting through his fingers and soaking the hair on his chest; Aiden didn’t turn the plug off so the waves continued to crash over him until he was shaking weakly on top of the damp sheets of the bed.

The world faded out for what might have been hours. When Lambert’s eyes opened, his body was heavy, relaxed, and he blinked at the phone on the headboard. Aiden hadn’t hung up, and beamed at him. “Welcome back, kitten. I ordered you pizza. Should be with you in an hour. You’re so consistent with your downtime.”

“What? You’re in America…”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Aiden grinned. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Hmm, okay. Let’s have a little chat, then I’ll let you relax for the rest of the night. I need you to get cleaned up first. Take it slow.”

“Aiden, I love you.”

Because sometimes Aiden needed reassurance too; that nothing he did, none of the rules he made, turned Lambert against him. It was such a simple reminder, but Lambert watched the softness spread through those green eyes. “I love you too.”


	15. Lambert/Aiden - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Remote butt plug, but on the Continent! [Slightly shorter as we did this concept for Modern AU earlier]._

Aiden brought a new toy with him to Kaer Morhen for the winter. The magic was of dubious origin, but the small ivory plug wouldn’t be the weirdest thing Lambert had ever shoved up his ass. “Can you still walk?” Aiden circled his Wolf, inspecting his clothed rear as if he could see the plug inside it.

“I take a pounding from you. This is a walk in Novigrad compared to that,” Lambert dismissed the whole thing with a sniff. “So, you activate it with that bracelet, do you?” 

“Yeah. I’ll test it at some point today. Let me know how it feels.”

Aiden did test it. He tested it a lot.

During training, he drew his thumb across the bangle while Lambert sparred with Eskel and watched him stagger and convulse with shock, sword left to clatter to the floor. 

During chores, leading to the kitchen floor covered in wolfsbane and a really bad rash on Lambert’s face where he chucked the crate in the air first. 

Any opportunity really. Because he’d rather die than admit to his brothers what he currently had lodged in his backside, Lambert stormed off each time with his residual dignity.

When it came to dinner, Eskel glanced curiously over his shoulder when Lambert failed to turn up. “Where’s Lambert?”

“Give me a moment.” Aiden touched the bracelet…

“By Melitele’s tits, can you fucking stop?!” Lambert bellowed from somewhere in the keep, tone edged with desperation.

“On his way.”

Eskel hummed. “Those plugs are pretty good, aren’t they?”

Aiden decided then and there that Eskel was his favourite. Lambert would just have to accept it.


	16. Lambert/Aiden - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aiden spends yet another winter at Kaer Morhen…_

“Lambert,” Aiden’s head appeared around the door of the armoury. “Now?”

The Wolf looked up from the whetstone in his hand. “No, not yet.”

An hour later, Aiden appeared in the window of the kitchen. “Now?”

“Later.” Lambert waved the knife he was using to chop arenaria.

Two hours after that, Aiden shouted across the courtyard as Lambert worked at Eskel’s side. “How about now?”

“For fuck’s sake, Aiden, later.”

Over dinner, the Cat pushed his food around his plate and kept glancing at Lambert hopefully, but otherwise remained silent. When the Wolves were finally done drinking and Gwent-ing, Aiden dropped his chin to the table, blew his eyes as big as they would go and trilled to get Lambert’s attention. “Now?”

Lambert smirked. “Yeah, now. C’mon.”

In the warm safety of Lambert’s room, Aiden sprawled out on the soft fur rug before the hearth and closed his eyes. His lover straddled his hips and massaged sweet smelling oils into his back with deep, indulgent touches. The first brush of his hands, strong and firm, untethered Aiden from harsh reality and set him adrift. 

The purr welled from deep in his chest and spread through the rest of his body like ripples across the surface of Morhen lake. It was the closest thing to heaven he’d ever experienced and it was by far his favourite part of wintering at Kaer Morhen.

Those deep rumbles were occasionally punctuated by quiet gasps and whimpers of pleasure as Lambert worked at a particularly tight knot. When everything was hazy, when his body was pliant and relaxed beneath Lambert’s hands, the Wolf leaned over and squeezed his ass, whispering gently. “Can I?”

Aiden could feel the firm line of his cock through his soft cotton braies. “Mm,” he blinked sleepily into the fire. “I want to sleep, just hold me.”

Lambert pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “Okay.” He settled down at Aiden’s side, strong arms wrapped around his more slender body, and stroked him until they both fell asleep. Even if all Aiden wanted for the rest of the winter was this, then Lambert would still be the happiest man on the Continent.


	17. Lambert/Eskel - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert gets seriously aroused during a joint hunt with Eskel..._

“A nest of three wyvern,” Eskel raised an eyebrow. “Not unheard of, but rare. And quite a handful. Must be a pair with a hatchling that just decided to stay together.” The world was changing and monsters along with it.

“Oh aye,” the alderman sniffed. “That’s why we hired two’v’ya.” He indicated the tavern with a flick of the head. “I know Witchers are usually solo hunters, but we need this nest taken care of.”

Eskel entered the inn with a knot of apprehension coiled in his gut. He only had to hope it wasn’t a gods-damned Bear, because they would not take kindly to another Witcher. The fates were on his side that day, because his accomplice for the venture turned out to be his favourite prickly bastard in the whole wide Continent. “Hmm. You look like shit.”

Lambert looked up from his mug of ale and then, upon seeing Eskel, glanced over his shoulder. “Well, I know you’re not talking to me because I look fucking ravishing,” he smirked, stood and they pulled each other close for a tight embrace, ignoring the odd looks they received from surrounding patrons. “Here for the nest? They said they wanted to find me a sidekick.”

 _“You’re_ the sidekick, I’m the main event,” Eskel elbowed him as he sat down, helping himself to the rest of Lambert’s ale despite the grumbles of protest. “Done much reconnaissance?”

“What? You think I’d just sit here yanking my dick?” Lambert snatched a map stuffed into the top of his pack and spread it out. “Wyvern’s are nesting on this cliff edge. One male - fucking massive beast - female, and a mature hatchling. Unusual. Male should’ve driven him off by now.”

“Urgh, two males?” Eskel sighed. “I’ll brew up some Golden Oriole. Good for twilight?”

“Well, it’s when their sight is worse,” Lambert huffed. “You owe me an ale.”

They waited out the rest of the day. Eskel disappeared briefly to collect the ingredients he needed and brew their decoction, but otherwise ate and exchanged stories. Seeing another of his family on the Path was a rare treat - well, it used to be. As the density of monsters became thinner, it was becoming more and more common. Perhaps soon the School of Wolf would be hunting together like their namesake.

As the sun began to disappear behind the trees, the two Witchers headed out into the woodlands towards the ravine. The opportunity to hunt at Eskel’s side was one that Lambert relished, and he kept glancing at his red wolf, with their sacrificial sheep clutched beneath his arm, appreciatively as they traipsed through the trees.

The distant roar of the wyvern drew them in the right direction and they approached the precipice of the cliff tentatively. All three beasts were currently snuffling around the huge nest, bones rattling around their clawed feet. The plan was to lure one of the adults away to feed and come back to finish off the remaining two. They tethered their sheep in the middle of a nearby clearing and cut open its side. Eskel murmured a quiet apology when it bleated at him in protest and sank back into the bushes. They took a dose of Blizzard and Tawny Owl apiece when they heard the flap of wings about twenty minutes later.

It was the male. Against two Witchers, he didn’t stand a chance. Huge jaws snapped around the mouthful of sheep tethered in the clearing just as two silver swords plunged through the softer scales on his sides and underbelly. The poisonous barb on his tail whipped around over their heads and Eskel cut through the ligaments and tendons of his wings with brutal efficiency. The wyvern’s roars of anguish would attract his family, and his limbs had only just stilled when the sound of beating wings filled the air anew.

Lambert glanced across at Eskel just as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a third potion. From its colour and the way the veins in Eskel’s neck bulged, Lambert recognised it as Rook, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Eskel looked fucking beautiful at the best of times, but hopped up on their toxic potions, with his muscles bulging through the straps of his armour, he was truly majestic; he appeared to double in size, the order barked at Lambert rumbling across the clearing deeper than growling thunder. Eskel’s upper lip curled in a feral snarl as the female landed before him and snapped in challenge; he grabbed her by the lower jaw, his upper body twisting, and slammed her head into the ground.

_Lambert had never been so fucking aroused in his life._

The way that Eskel moved. The way he snarled, veins bulging in his neck, ass and thighs testing the confines of his trousers. There was nothing human about him but the mortal shell he inhabited, and even that seemed barely enough to contain him. 

The burgeoning hardon Lambert was nursing did precisely _nothing_ to help him focus on the adolescent hatchling that landed before him. He ducked beneath its lashing tail and dodged away from its serrated teeth. The decoction lacing his blade hissed through its oily blood as he slashed a few deep wounds in its haunches, but Lambert kept glancing across at his companion. He almost fucking moaned when Eskel sent the wyvern reeling with a shattering punch to its horned face. Watching another Witcher fight shouldn’t be this erotic, but it was Eskel, and _Eskel_ could turn Lambert on with a smile and a wink.

The hatchling finally folded under his blade. Its rattling death cry momentarily distracted its mother and Eskel stabbed his blade upwards. Blood surged from the wound, joining the dense pools already flooding the clearing, turning the soil into a quagmire that clung to their boots. Eskel yanked his sword out of the wyvern’s head, bone splintering and brain matter splattering, and turned just as Lambert’s hands reached out for him. 

Flaring nostrils picked up the spice of arousal beneath the cloying sweetness of death, and Eskel’s primal instinct spiked in response, his cock swelling at the prospect of… _he had no idea what._ With Rook surging through his veins, his entire body quivered with raw energy and unfiltered strength. The adrenaline translated into lustful excitement and he threw his sword to the side in favour of taking Lambert into his arms.

Lambert could feel it under his hands even through Eskel’s gambeson as he pressed up against him; a hum of power that threatened to crush them both if it became untethered. It didn’t matter that Eskel’s eyes were coal black, or his skin the pallor of toxicity, because they both looked like hellish nightmares as they came down from their high. Lambert smashed their mouths together and pawed desperately at the ties on Eskel’s codpiece, pulling back just a fraction to whisper against his lips. “Gonna’ suck you off. Right here.”

“Hmm,” Eskel growled; the noise reverberated through to Lambert’s very soul. He could think of nothing more gratifying than the moment he dropped to his knees in the mud and wrapped his mouth around Eskel’s beast of a cock. It was so thick that he could feel it rub across the edges of the teeth, his jaw straining to take it and still swirl his tongue to taste the spurts of precome welling from the head. Eskel’s fingers gripped in Lambert’s hair as he worked, the loud, wanton moans escaping his throat vibrating the length of Eskel’s spine.

The smell of Eskel was intoxicating. The musk of sweat and pheromones spiked with the residue of their potions; Lambert grabbed Eskel’s thighs and pushed as far forward as he dared, the huge head of his cock challenging the barrier of his throat. His eyes rolled back with a desperate moan when the rigid prick in his mouth finally pulsed. Eskel snarled, fingers squeezing in Lambert’s hair, as he came in a hard torrent down the back of his eager throat. He watched it erupt through the seam between his cock and Lambert’s over stretched lips, and listened to him choke in his effort to drink as much as he could.

Eskel hauled him to his feet and scooped two hands beneath his ass. “I’m going to fuck you into oblivion.” He growled, voice still a metallic purr thanks to Rook swelling his vocal chords.

“Oh fuck, yes,” Lambert breathed, throat hoarse. Because Eskel hopped up on Rook would be the most brutal, mindbending fuck of his year, and Lambert couldn’t fucking wait.


	18. Lambert/Geralt - Ana-Kagetsu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert’s feeling angry and lonely after things end with Keira. The prospect of spending Beltane on his own makes him pricklier than usual. Geralt takes on the challenge…_

Lambert was spending Beltane at Corvo Bianco. There were several key issues that made this a potentially explosive situation. Firstly, he’d been dumped recently and the constant reminder of love and romance in the lead up to the festival was making him more prickly than usual; secondly, Geralt allowed his workers to host their celebrations in one of his fields, so Lambert wouldn’t be able to escape them and finally, everyone else wasn’t going to be there. 

Eskel was delayed on a contract in Poviss last Geralt heard, Triss and Yen were spending it together at Ban Ard, Ciri was busy. Even Jaskier, always reliable, had decided to spend it in Novigrad at his tavern. _We have a huge show planned, dear heart; I’ll make it up to you I promise._

Geralt watched Lambert stomp across the courtyard from the window of his bedroom and heaved a sigh. _Better go defuse that before it became an issue for someone._

“Barnabas has got some more Sangreal from the Duchess,” Geralt opened with the offer of alcohol, because it was an easy in with Lambert. “Was gonna’ watch all the goings on from the barn roof tonight. Got any plans?”

Lambert turned with a growl. “What? You think I haven’t got a better proposition than you on Beltane?” _He didn’t._ Geralt raised an eyebrow, informing Lambert in no uncertain terms that he was well aware of this, so the prickly bastard changed tac. “Is that your way of asking me to spend it with you? You’re literally the most unromantic fuck I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Geralt folded his arms, not bothering to fight the smirk tugging at the edges of his lips despite the likelihood of adding more fuel to the man-shaped inferno before him. “Maybe I could teach you a few things then the next girl won’t disappear so quickly.”

“Coming from the bloke who had not one, not two, but three chances at happy ever after with a sorceress and blew it? Yeah, I’ll pass.” Lambert’s hands bunched into fists, his shoulders hunching. After all these years, Geralt knew what a hurting Lambert looked like. And Lambert was _hurting_. Despite his bravado, he’d genuinely cared for Keira. _Loved her,_ even. 

“You’re just scared you won’t be able to resist all this.” Geralt swept a hand down his body vaguely and Lambert barked a laugh.

“You are un-fucking-believable,” he was about to walk away, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the idea of watching Geralt flail, or maybe the offer of wine, or… his burning desire not to spend all night watching others with their loved ones while he was on his own. “You know what, pretty boy? Fine. Educate me. I’ll spend Beltane with you.” 

Geralt grinned. “Pick you up at sunset?”

Lambert rolled his eyes and stomped off. The fresh air and the peace were good for him. As they got older, his brothers were finding the Path harder and harder, so it was a point of pride for Geralt that he could provide them somewhere safe and tranquil to recharge.

For the rest of the day, he threw himself wholeheartedly into Operation Woo the Prickly Bastard. Barnabas sourced him some soft furs and throws for the roof, some scented candles, expensive cheeses and meats, and one of the young girls that worked for him in a domestic capacity wove two flower crowns from the wildflowers on the estate. By the time the sun set and the bonfires were roaring away in the bottom field, Geralt had everything ready. There was just one ingredient missing and so he left the roof of the barn to collect him.

Lambert was sitting in the drawing room with some sewing. Most of his shirts were a patchwork of different material, but he was too stubborn and proud to allow Geralt to replace them. He was wearing one of his nicer ones now though, Geralt noted, and he’d washed his hair without adding the grease he used to slick it back. Huh. _Fluffy Lambert._ That… was actually very attractive. Geralt swaggered into the drawing room. “Your date night awaits.”

He rolled his eyes as he stood, but otherwise Lambert didn’t say a single word as they headed out into the estate. Geralt watched him glance at the young lovers wound in each other’s arms and pointedly turn his gaze away, head low, shoulders bunched, and his resolve hardened. He was going to make Lambert feel loved tonight. Even if it killed him. Which, as Lambert was involved, there was certainly a risk.

“After you,” Geralt indicated the ladder up to the roof.

“Aren’t you meant to carry me?” Lambert drawled, but was soon speeding up the rungs with Geralt following in his wake. He nearly walked into the back of him when they crested the gutter. Lambert stared at the arrangement of furs and pillows, with the flickering candles giving off a faint, pleasant scent. The bottles of wine were carefully arranged with two glasses - _legitimate fucking glasses_ \- and two flower crowns sitting on the pillows. Without thinking, he immediately backtracked. Panic welled in his chest. “Are you taking the piss?”

Geralt’s hands rested gently on Lambert’s back. “You said I couldn’t romance, so I’m gonna’ prove you wrong,” he pointed at the furs. “We had a deal. You backing out now?” 

“No,” Lambert murmured, because if there was something worse than whatever the fuck his heart was doing right now, then it was allowing Pretty Boy an easy victory. The furs were soft underhand as Lambert lowered himself down, only grumbling when Geralt indicated his boots after kicking off his own. They leaned back on the pillows, shoulder to shoulder, with a glass of strong, red wine in their hands and Geralt breathed a deep, contented sigh.

Their shared silence wasn’t awkward. Geralt knew Lambert well; he needed an opportunity to evaluate his own head and decide the current situation was acceptable. That Geralt wasn’t trying to ridicule, or take anything from him. There was no shame to be found here. They got through an entire bottle of wine before Lambert finally spoke, his eyes settled on the group of young lovers currently dancing in a ring around a bonfire. “You’re the only landowner I know of where the employees actually like being here.”

“It’s something us and the peasants have in common,” Geralt propped himself up on his elbows. “Being treated as less than human. I just treat them fairly.”

“Never stopped them running us out of town though.”

“Fear makes people do stupid things. So does anger. Leads to self-sabotage and long term unhappiness.”

Lambert wasn’t stupid. He knew a quiet lecture when he heard one, but rather than rise to it, he took a shot at the whimsical tone. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Geralt.” His answer was a quiet hum and they went back to watching the festivities, with occasional conversation punctuating the peaceful quiet. As the level of wine in their bloodstream got higher, Geralt scooped the flower crown up and dumped it on Lambert’s head with a chuckle, accepting the light dig in the ribs he got in return. They watched those young lovers laugh, drink and run off into the darkness, and Lambert found his attention slipping.

It was Geralt. His easy smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way he sat so close, smelled so good. Like summer, Lambert realised. Geralt smelled like heady summer evenings spent in flowering fields with a mug full of mead, surrounded by family and friends. Spicy, sultry, happy and comforting all at the same time. The candles flickered in a light breeze and the wine dulled the sharp edges of the world until Lambert found himself sidling just a little closer, his head flopping to Geralt’s shoulder.

“You know, you look good with your hair like that.” Geralt murmured, his voice thick with the sweet wine they’d been enjoying for the last few hours. Lambert blinked dumbly, lips parting, brain scrambling for a witty comeback but coming up short. Geralt sat up then and slid an arm around his waist; he scooped the flower crown from Lambert’s head and brushed his fingers through tousled hair. “It’s soft. Makes you look… nice.”

“And I thought Jaskier was shit at flirting,” Lambert whispered, but his eyes had dropped to Geralt’s lips and the tingles of pleasure fluttering across his scalp were now skittering down his neck. 

“Flirting’s fake,” Geralt replied, almost tartly but for the warm glow of his golden eyes and the sweet heaviness to their gaze. “S’meant to get in someone’s pants, you say anythin’. I mean it. You’re a damn good-looking man when you stop scowling.”

“I don’t scowl…” Lambert growled, scowling.

“Mmm,” Geralt stroked the side of Lambert’s face, scratching happily through his beard. He scooped the smaller body closer - smaller, but no less strong, no less thickly muscled; warm and appetising. “Your lips are really nice. Really full. Jaskier would have some poetry for them, but I… they’re just very nice, aren’t they?”

It was the wine. _The fucking wine._ Lambert swallowed. Because Geralt was being genuine, and he was so close, and he smelled really, _really_ good. If he’d tried poetry, or any similar bullshit, Lambert would’ve kicked back. In fact, he’d been prepared for that. _Not this_. Not lowkey, gentle, real affection that made his chest tight and his head light. Not the beautiful shine in Geralt’s eyes or the tender, undemanding brush of his fingers.

Lambert dissolved into the kiss that followed effortlessly. His back lowered onto the furs beneath as Geralt’s thick chest pressed gently into his, his head nestling in the crook of Geralt’s elbow. Lambert suddenly realised just how Geralt had convinced so many people into his bed over the years; his tongue was… _it did things._ The softest moan worked free from Lambert’s chest and he clung to Geralt’s shirt, arching into the hands that swept up beneath his own and caressed his ribs, leaving shivering, excited flesh in their wake. 

When those kisses worked down his jaw and his neck - unhurried, sensual - Lambert’s eyes rolled back and he gave in completely. His clothes melted away without him even realising until he was naked beneath Geralt, the hot press of his skin _everything_ and _too much_ all at the same time. _Oh, the fucker had brought oil with him._ He’d been so fucking assured of his prowess. That should piss Lambert off. Should make him snap, and bite, but Geralt was kissing his neck as he worked two fingers inside his body, finding the exact spot that made him gasp, and Lambert decided that his future self could deal with the indignation, because his present self was weak and wanting.

So, under the full Beltane moon, Geralt of Rivia made love to him. The bastard romanced the braies right off, and then didn’t even have the good grace to _gloat_ the next day so that Lambert could _hate_ him for it. Oh no, he was an absolute _gentleman_. There was aftercare and everything. And _breakfast in bed._

Urgh. Geralt. _What a prick._

In more ways than one, by Melitele’s fucking tits, it… _fuck._


	19. Lambert/Eskel - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert tries to make Eskel an anniversary dinner to celebrate their fiftieth year as a couple. It… well, hmm._

It was their anniversary. Fifty years. _Fifty years of Team Lambskel._ And Lambert wanted to do something special. The snows had all melted and spring was creeping ever closer, so he had to act quickly or risk losing the opportunity. Vesemir and Geralt went out to clear the kikimora den to the south and Lambert knew it was time.

He caught the fattest ground fowl he could find and pulled out an old Kaedweni recipe from his trunk. The herbs and the spices he needed were all in the greenhouse, in addition to the specialist ingredients he’d purchased in Ard Carraigh on his way up here. Gutting and stripping the bird was easy enough - just like out on the Path - but it was the moment all the ingredients had to come together that everything started to go wrong.

Three things were all on the boil at once, and he put too much salt in one pot and not enough ginger in another. Then he accidentally cut his finger because he was distracted by something boiling over. And then he burned the fucking bird. He was making so much noise - swearing, slamming pans around and lamenting the existence of root vegetables - that Eskel appeared in the doorway.

“No!” Lambert rounded on him. “Out, get out!”

“Lambert, what - ?” Eskel gazed around the absolute carnage of the kitchen. There was flour everywhere - somehow, had he been baking? - spices scattered, several hundred different kitchen utensils all dirtied. Three pans were all simultaneously boiled over and the charred remains of a bird sat in the centre of the table. One big hand swept down behind his head, the other planted on his hip. “Were you - ?”

“Trying to do something fucking nice,” Lambert threw a pan into the washing bowl with a loud clatter, and then shoved a few more in with a vengeful snarl. “Trying to _fucking_ be a decent _fucking_ \- do you know how much ginger burns your eyes? Do you? And what the fuck does sautee mean? What does it mean, Eskel? _What_?” 

Eskel couldn’t help but grin. After all this time, Lambert knew he wasn’t being ridiculed; Eskel was trying to laugh _with_ him about the absurdity of the situation, not at his efforts, not his genuine desire to do something for the man he cared for. Big arms encircled his shoulders and Lambert sank into Eskel’s chest with a shuddering sigh. Eskel stroked over the top of his head and then planted a kiss on his crown. “Thank you, I love it.”

“I haven’t even made anything.” Lambert grumbled.

“Yeah you did,” Eskel pulled the love of his life away from his chest and cupped his chin. “You made me smile. Like you always do. And that means more to me than all the gold on the Continent.”

_Well, fuck._

Lambert took Eskel silently by the hand and dragged him out of the kitchen to bed. He’d tidy up the kitchen before Pretty Boy and Papa Vesemir arrived back, but for now he wanted to spend the rest of the evening making Eskel smile.


	20. Geralt & Lambert - Tnico

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert leaves Geralt in charge for five fucking minutes…_

“Watch him for five minutes,” Lambert indicated the play pen containing his son as he rolled off the couch; it was half time and he needed to do the one thing Keira had told him to do while she was out. “I just gotta’ put the washing in the dryer or she’ll cut my bollocks off.”

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement and sipped from the beer in his hand but came up empty. Mason, said baby, bubbled away happily as he threw around some soft toys and Geralt thought it was safe to leave him for five minutes while he retrieved a fresh drink from the fridge. 

_Five fucking minutes._

When he returned to the living room, however, the pen was very, _very_ empty. Geralt stared in disbelief. He circled once, walked back into the kitchen, returned, and then left a second time. _No. He wasn’t seeing things._ Beer propped on the kitchen counter, he looked up as Lambert returned with an empty washing basket.

“Lambert,” Geralt began, his tone grave. “The baby’s missing.”

“What?”

“I’ve lost the baby, I was only gone for—.” But Lambert was already running into the living room and— 

“FUCK!” 

Geralt stood at his shoulder and they both stared into the empty play pen.

“How—?”

“I fucking well told you.” Lambert ran his hands over his head. “She’s gonna’ kill me. She goes out for an hour and I lose the fucking baby.”

“He’s three. He can’t have gone far. We’ll find him,” Geralt, slightly panicked by Lambert’s distress, gingerly picked up a throw cushion as if the escapee would suddenly pop out from the couch. “How hard can it be?”

“Geralt,” Lambert whined, his hands still gripping in his hair. “He’s _**my**_ son.”

“Fuck.”

_They were doomed._


	21. Lambert/Eskel - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel and Lambert spend the winter in each other’s arms…_

Eskel rubbed a broad palm across his face as he surfaced from a pleasant dream of warm fires, good food and a firm body writhing in pleasure beneath his hands. As his vision cleared and he rolled over onto his side, the furs gathered low around his waist, he realised his dreams were in fact happy recollections of the evening before. Lambert stood in the tall window of Eskel’s bedroom, his arm braced against the stone lintel with a tankard clutched loosely above his head, gazing down at the snow falling from the grey winter skies outside.

The courtyard had vanished below a winter blanket; the walls, the training dummies, the scaffolds, all quilted in a perfect layer of untouched white. Eskel knew that Lambert hated the cold. He whinged and griped about the frigid temperatures of the keep and the mournful winds that never ceased their howling symphony through the mountains. But in the warmth of Eskel’s room, with the fire piled high, his defensive shell of snark and aggression discarded, he could enjoy the simple beauty of it.

The serene moment gave Eskel the opportunity to admire the rugged magnificence of the man that had so recently warmed his bed. He’d donned Eskel’s shirt—his own in shredded tatters somewhere near the bedroom door—and it draped over the curves and angles of his frame, haphazard and delicious. Folded over one quirked hip, it exposed the curves of a perfectly toned ass, and hung listlessly from one shoulder to pool at the bend of his elbow. Lambert wasn’t a small man; he was strong, muscular, broader than most. A creature of strength, grace and power. But in Eskel’s shirt he looked smaller, more vulnerable; his usually slicked hair ruffled and fluffy, his neck and exposed shoulder marked with the evidence of their passion.

As if he felt the weight of Eskel’s eyes, Lambert turned to glance over his shoulder. He didn’t break the tranquillity, rendered mellow in the wake of their lovemaking, and wandered back over without speaking. The tankard made a hollow thunk as Lambert placed it on the bedside cabinet, and Eskel rolled onto his back as his lover climbed onto the bed to straddle his hips. Wide palms slid up muscular thighs to a narrow waist and tugged Lambert down into a lazy embrace.

Eskel traced his nose down the line of a bristled jaw to the soft skin beneath Lambert’s ear, breathing deeply until he could practically taste it on his tongue; Lambert smelled of him. His skin, his hair, Eskel had claimed every inch of the man above him, over and over. In the bruising kisses lacing his throat, the brilliant ache left behind by the girth of his prick and the thickness of his scent mingled with the musk of Lambert’s desire.

They belonged to each other. A bond they reinforced every winter in so many different ways; card games and drunken revelry, training and playfighting, chores and hunting. But this part of their ritual was Eskel’s favourite. Having Lambert in his bed, in his arms, their scents mingled until it was unclear where one began and the other ended. Their love communicated in whispers and moans, gentle caresses and biting kisses.

Soft lips brushed, so chaste, so gentle; Eskel rolled Lambert onto the bed, stroking a flurry of goosebumps down his side to grip at his hip. He leaned over to mouth kisses over the fading bruises on his Lambert’s neck, who smirked even as he arched into Eskel’s chest. “You’re a thirsty old bastard.” 

“Not my fault,” Eskel growled before he sucked another mark into Lambert’s skin, rewarded with a quiet gasp of pleasure. “You’re addictive. I can’t stop.”

“Good job we’ve got all winter then,” Lambert whispered, head flopping back as hot breath and soft obsidian locks of hair tickled down his chest, preceding the graze of teeth and the soothing caress of scarred lips. “Should I take the shirt off?”

“No,” Eskel lifted the hem to Lambert’s waist as he climbed between his thighs. His fist bunched in the familiar texture of the material, his tongue lapping through the first silky beads of precome swelling from the slit of Lambert’s cock. “I want you to come apart in it.”

Wrapped in Eskel’s scent, his hands, his lips, the reassurance of safety and love, Lambert willingly fell to pieces.


	22. Eskel/Geralt - Teainamarblecup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel and Geralt reminisce about old times while finding comfort in the love they share…_

Geralt and Eskel watched the sunset together atop the crumbling stone of the western wall. They sat shoulder to shoulder with a thick fur throw pulled around both of them and a mug of mulled wine each to keep the winter chill at bay. The temperature would drop rapidly now but moving was too much effort; the warmth and scent of the other too much of an enticement to stay. 

A distant howl echoed in the darkness of the trees beyond and Geralt smiled. “We never used a howl.” 

“Huh?” Eskel stifled a yawn, lifting his head from where it’d flopped onto Geralt’s shoulder.

“When we used animal noises while sneaking around at night. We never used a howl.”

Renowned for their mischief, Geralt and Eskel had devised ways to keep themselves out of trouble while still operating their nefarious schemes. The most reprehensible one being the theft of alcohol and cheese from the pantry at night. When Eskel got big enough, he could carry entire kegs of ale on his back with little issue. They brought Gweld in on the action and, in order to track the instructors, they utilised different animal noises to alert their co-conspirators to the proximity of danger. Because getting caught out of bed at night with a wheel of Rennes’ favourite Kaedweni Cheddar? Essentially a death sentence as far as your backside was concerned. Witchers put a lot of stock in ‘spare the cane, spoil the child’.

They weren’t stupid. The instructors wouldn’t be fooled into thinking an owl had taken up residence in the Grand Hall, but it gave everyone a chance to scarper and made it more difficult for the old Witchers to identify the culprits. All trainees smelled the same; fear, humanity and a sprinkling of adolescent body odour. 

“No, c’mon. We must’ve,” Eskel rubbed his face thoughtfully. “Barmin was an owl.” _The wisest of all the old Witchers._

Geralt placed his mulled wine on the wall next to him, arm briefly free of the warm confines of their fur blanket, before cupping his hands to his mouth. “Hoo-hoo.” He grinned. “Rennes was a bear.” Eskel imitated the low, bestial growl to which Geralt responded with two wiggling eyebrows, before continuing. “Who was the starling?” 

“Gardis, because he had the best singing voice,” Eskel smirked. “Well, as good as it could be when singing about tits and mead.”

“Mm. What was Vesemir?”

“Raven. Or a crow. Intelligent, just as mischievous as us in his youth, and good at hunting with others.” Eskel called with his hands cupped to his mouth—caw, caw—and they listened to his voice as it was swallowed by the night. 

“Why’d we never use a wolf?”

“Hmm,” Eskel tilted his head. “Maybe ‘cause we were the wolves? Hunting as a pack.” 

Geralt smirked. “Hunting cheese and watered-down ale.”

“Rennes’ cheese stash is potentially the deadliest of all the contracts I’ve ever undertaken.” Eskel murmured seriously, and then nudged Geralt with his elbow as he chuckled. They fell silent as their memories carried them away to a different time when Kaer Morhen wasn’t crumbling and their brothers were still alive. They were a pack of four now. There were no instructors to dodge in the night, no trainees to scheme with, just the cold hostility of the outside world who’d rather they didn’t exist at all.

The distant wolf picked up his solemn tune again, but this time he didn’t finish alone, because Geralt joined with his own throaty ‘awoo’. They listened to the echo fade into the dark trees and then picked up the second wave together. Two wolves reminding the world of their presence, calling to the spirits of their brothers on the other side, never forgotten.

As their voices petered out, their grins broad and chests breathless, Geralt gazed across at Eskel. When he looked into his warm, amber eyes, listened to his deep, boisterous laugh and revelled in the affections of his gentle heart, Geralt felt at peace. He was reminded that he shared a soul with a kindred spirit; a man that knew him perhaps better than even he did. It was so easy to be angry and bitter on the Path; to feel slighted by destiny and isolated by the rest of the world. But at home, when Eskel was near, he just crowded it all out.

“Have I got somethin’ on my face?” Eskel lifted a hand self-consciously to paw at his scars, but Geralt took it in both of his and pulled it away. Such a big hand—with strong fingers and a broad palm—but they were always so tender, so careful.

“No, was just thinking about kissing you, but if I start out here we’ll never get back inside.”

“Hm,” Eskel shuffled, as if to check the comfort of their current perch. “I’ve got nothin’ on at the moment, so…”

“Oh, so you can fit me in? S’good to know.” Geralt smirked as he took Eskel by the chin and brought their mouths together. A soft sigh of bliss passed between them, tongues intertwining in a familiar dance perfected through decades of practice. Geralt stroked Eskel’s jaw, tracing the familiar etchings of their shared history, and Eskel petted through soft, silvery hair, tugging insistently until Geralt’s head flopped back to reveal his throat. The reverent brush of Eskel’s lips, with their unique notch and practiced ease, soon rendered Geralt weak, his gasps clouding before his lips in the frigid winter air.

They found their way to Eskel’s bed eventually—stumbling drunk on the lingering taste of their lover’s skin, fingers and toes frozen where the blanket had slipped away—and Geralt thanked his lucky stars for the ten thousandth time that he still had Eskel’s arms to come home to every winter.


	23. Wolf Pack/Bard - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel chops some wood in the courtyard. Just a standard chore. But he’s shirtless, and the rest of the pack can’t get enough..._

It wasn’t fair that Eskel’s body moved like that. Or glistened like that. Or still looked even remotely tanned against the backdrop of early winter snow against the walls. Geralt watched him from a fairly discreet distance as he chopped up huge logs brought in from the surrounding forest for firewood.

After several weeks of Vesemir’s cooking, bed rest and exercise in the courtyard, Eskel was looking far too delicious for his own good. This high up in the mountains they endured the dichotomy of blazing sun and biting cold in equal measure, so Eskel had taken his shirt off after working up a sweat. There were a few moments where it glistened across the flexing muscles of his back, catching twinkles of wintry sunlight; Geralt had been immediately transfixed and hadn’t moved since.

Jaskier, who’d been put to work shifting boxes of herbs from the greenhouse into the keep, took a detour when he spotted Geralt lazing on the courtyard steps. “Well, glad to see some of us have time to—.” He cut off when Geralt threw up a hand to silence him, and then pointed across the courtyard. “Oh, sweet Melitele, sexy Witcher wolf on a horse, what—.” Box immediately forgotten, Jaskier sat down slowly at Geralt’s side, blue eyes wide as Eskel lifted the axe above his head. “Why can’t I look away?”

“Because it’s Eskel,” Geralt murmured, doing his very best not to salivate as Eskel’s abdominal muscles flexed beneath the layer of winter chunkiness, thick biceps working as he grabbed another huge log and shifted it into position. The object of their fascination paused to grab the tankard sat on a nearby workbench, and Jaskier watched his throat ripple, following the line down to his collarbone and the broad, muscular shoulders that he just wanted to hang from. 

Lambert, who’d been waiting for Jaskier to arrive for ten minutes now, stomped out of the front doors. He saw them lounging on the steps and prowled over, all ire and disgruntlement, until both raised a hand to silence him and point simultaneously across the courtyard. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he whispered in awe, and slowly sank down onto the step at Jaskier’s side. It was the shirtless in trousers and boots combination that really did it for Lambert. Just all that raw masculinity, with the peppering of black hair across his barrelled chest, dusky, peaked nipples and a really nice ass that he got a full display of when Eskel bent over to grab another log.

All three of them sat and watched, tongues darting out across dry lips, hands clutching at taut thighs. It was only a matter of time before Eskel felt the weight of their gaze on him. He turned to grab his drink again when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—their attention was definitely predatory, just not in the way he was used to—and he glanced over towards the keep. Two sets of yellow and one set of blue eyes stared at him intently, and he turned abruptly to inspect the bailey wall in search of the threat and— 

—saw nothing. Eskel turned back, one hand rubbing over his neck, before fluttering his fingers in a tentative wave. Why were they staring? Had he sat in something without realising? He tried to be discreet about checking his backside, and then glanced into a melted pool of water to make sure his face wasn’t uglier than usual. No, not that… 

“He’s getting self-conscious,” Lambert murmured.

“I think we should show our appreciation, perhaps in a more intimate setting?” Jaskier offered.

“If I get him in a bed, I’m not going to be able to stop until tomorrow.” Geralt said, already braced to stand, his mind made up.

“Chores can wait,” Jaskier grabbed Lambert by the elbow. “Vesemir’s out hunting. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt us.”

“I like your logic, buttercup,” Lambert left the steps with Jaskier at his heel, while Geralt trotted across the courtyard to seduce Eskel away from his task. It really didn’t take much. Geralt knew all the shortcuts—hands at his waist and then sliding up the small of his back, lips and teeth just beneath his ear, a growled “want you, now” before pulling away—and he was soon herding Eskel into his bedroom. 

Their lumberjack fantasy clearly didn’t expect to have everyone waiting for him, because he hesitated as Geralt nudged him towards the bed where two naked, lusty nymphs awaited; Jaskier’s fingers pulled out of his own hole, open and glistening, and Eskel swallowed thickly as his entire body suddenly hummed with need. Lambert smirked, reached out and grabbed Eskel by the belt. “You can’t go lookin’ like a wet dream and not expect us all to want piece, big guy.” 

Eskel kicked his boots off as Lambert wrestled his trousers down his thighs, immediately shoving his nose against Eskel’s groin; breathed deeply of the thick, musky scent that gathered there and wasted no time in swallowing his rapidly swelling cock. “Lambert, what—mmm.” Eskel’s fingers buried in Lambert’s hair, hips rolling as an expert tongue swirled around his tip and the dived down beneath his shaft. 

A pair of blue eyes watched him as their owner shuffled towards the edge of the bed and spread his legs. Geralt’s hands settled on Eskel’s hips and guided him away from Lambert’s eager mouth to fall between Jaskier’s thighs. Eskel could feel the brush of Geralt’s cock against his ass and groaned, partly in anticipation of feeling it press inside him, but also because of the way Jaskier’s body seemed to pull him in, heels pressing gently into the base of his back to guide him lower. 

“Oh, oh, Eskel, fuck,” Jaskier arched, both cursing and lauding his hasty preparation; after all these years, he was well-versed in accommodating Witchers, but it didn’t reduce the awe of feeling them stretch him wide. Eskel spread his knees across the bed, his feet hanging off the edge of the mattress as he began a slow, lazy thrust; Jaskier continued to bleat obscenities, only to be muffled when Lambert shuffled over and sat on his face.

“Put that mouth to better u—ha-ah!” Two elegant hands grabbed onto his thighs immediately as Jaskier licked up over his hole without encouragement; swirling, teasing, and eventually pushing inside with a low moan of pleasure. Eskel, who was now staring Lambert’s cock in the eye, dropped onto his elbows and wrapped his mouth around it, still slowly fucking into Jaskier with indolent abandon.

Geralt watched his lovers slot together, like pieces of a puzzle, perfectly engineered to work as one given the right opportunity. His eyes followed the flicker of firelight across Eskel’s back, watched the trajectory of a single bead of sweat as it gathered at his shoulder blades and slipped down his spine to the nook of his cleft. His toned ass flexed with every deep thrust, heavy balls nestling against Jaskier’s body. Geralt grabbed the oil from the bed and coated his cock, before pouring the rest on Eskel’s tailbone.

The cold elicited a quiet grunt of discomfort, muffled by the girth of Lambert’s cock as it shoved deep into Eskel’s mouth, but it soon evaporated when Geralt’s thick fingers slid down to his hole and pushed inside. Eskel’s spine bent taut as Geralt went directly to the spot that mattered, massaging in broad circles, easing muscles loose.

“Geralt, fuck him, wanna’ watch him crumble,” Lambert gasped, because he was not going to be the first one to come; it was increasingly difficult though, with the bard’s tongue teasing his hole and his own hands buried in Eskel’s hair as he thrust up into his mouth. The head of his cock rubbed over the ridges of his mouth, shaft grazed gently by blunted molars, and he pushed a little deeper until Eskel’s throat yielded around him. “Oh, fuck, yeah, Eskel.”

Geralt took Eskel’s hips in both hands and lined his cock up, now so hard it throbbed. He still took his time pressing inside, feeling Eskel’s body shake, his muscles bunching and relaxing with each precious inch. Now they had consumed him. His mouth, his cock, his ass. Geralt’s hands slid up his back, gliding through the sweat of need and exertion, as he began a hard, demanding pace.

Senses overwhelmed, Eskel’s body went slack, relying on Geralt to keep them moving. The tight heat of Jaskier’s body, the salty, delicious taste of Lambert in his mouth and the burning insistence of Geralt’s prick obliterated Eskel’s sense of time and space. They could’ve been fucking into him for eternity, their hands, their lips, their bodies, paying their own sacrament as they squeezed and spread him. His body hummed with it, _throbbed_ with it, like he could feel their pleasure within his own every time they whispered his name, or moaned, or gasped. The clench of Jaskier’s body happened at roughly the same time as the pulse of Lambert’s cock; come dripped down from the corners of Eskel’s lips onto Jaskier’s chest, mixing with his own as it erupted over his stomach, as Lambert pulled away and threw himself onto the bed.

Jaskier arched as Eskel, driven by Geralt’s frantic pace, continued to thrust into him. His vision whited out, slender fingers hanging onto broad shoulders, until he felt them bunch; a rippling tension passing through Eskel’s body in the wake of his orgasm as he tore through him. 

Eskel wasn’t allowed rest though. Geralt pulled him from Jaskier and threw him down onto his back, before thrusting straight back into the hilt. Still chasing his peak, Geralt bit and sucked bruises into Eskel’s skin; marking his chest, his neck, everything that arched towards him. His cock dragged across Eskel’s prostate, punching deep, determined to coax another climax from him before he was done.

_Well, for this round._

He intended to take Eskel apart and put him back together on repeat for the rest of the day. And, judging by Lambert’s renewed erection and Jaskier’s keen interest, he’d have plenty of help.


	24. Eskel/Geralt - Solonapoleonsolo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Witchers don't feel emotions..._

* * *

“Witchers don’t feel emotions,” they say on repeat to anyone who listens. “They were mutated out of us.”

They don’t feel sadness, or anger, or happiness. They’re a bottomless pit of bleak nothingness. There’s a howling void in their chests where their heart should be, and the light of their soul was traded for yellow eyes and immortal strength.

_Witchers don’t feel emotions._

They don’t feel a stab of quiet pain every time someone spits at their feet mere hours after they’ve saved an entire community, or battle with gnawing loneliness as they watch yet another festival from afar, rejected by those they risk their lives for every single day.

_Witchers don’t feel emotions._

They certainly don’t feel a swell of joy whenever they spot a brother on the Path. They don’t slap them on the shoulder and pull them into a bone-crushing hug, greeting them with passion and relief, squeezing, scenting, wishing to test the reality; solid, warm, alive. Thank the gods. 

_Witchers don’t feel emotions._

They certainly don’t grin and shout with mirth and giggle drunkenly in their keep in front a roaring hearth, tilting their heads to broad shoulders and slurring proclamations of devotion, of raw, unerring love, before stumbling up winding staircases to bed.

_Witchers don’t feel emotions._

They don’t curl up beneath thick furs with their lover in their arms; a man they have loved passionately, devoutly, for over a century. They don’t trace the features of their face with the same mystified awe as if it were the first time, kiss supple lips chapped by the biting teeth of winter, or tenderly caress a scarred body with rough fingertips.

They don’t make love, the sweat clinging to their skin as they explore every inch of the lover they’ve missed all year with frantic hands, eager mouths and sensitive noses. They don’t laugh as tickling fingers tease and cheeky teeth nip; comfortable, relaxed, in the company of a man that knows them better than any other alive or dead.

And, as their lover smiles across the pillows, their amber eyes glowing in the flickering firelight, they definitely don’t cup their scarred cheek, thumb brushing a notched lip still damp from their own, drinking in a sight that sets their soul ablaze, fills their heart until its overflowing, and whisper ever so softly... 

“I love your smile.”


	25. Geralt/Eskel - Anoymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A choice from Geralt’s past comes back to haunt him in the worst way imaginable..._
> 
> CW: Major Character Death.

A rogue Witcher murdering whole villages. No rhyme or reason; no denied contracts, no monsters. It was rampant savagery. Sometimes it happened and it fell to the rest of the brotherhood to clear up the mess. A Cat finally snapping and wiping out entire communities, maybe a stray Viper left unaccounted for that had was exacting retribution on humanity for the fall of his school. Maybe not even a Witcher at all, but a regular human struck with a curse, or a sorcerer with a bone to pick.

Whatever it was, Geralt couldn’t allow the rumour to fester, because every whisper he heard said _‘Witcher’_. Slanderous gossip turned into legend and legends held weight. Legends snatched coin from desperate palms and food from hungry mouths. He rode south to find the most recently hit village. It lay in ruins. Not a single house remained standing, with the charred remains of corpses scattered about the dusty path. No one left alive to bury the dead either, or give him much needed information.

Necrophages would move in soon, but Geralt didn’t have time to stop. Whoever – whatever – this was needed to be brought down. He swung back up into Roach’s saddle, his eyes passing over a smaller body clinging to the brittle arm of a larger, and swallowed the ball of sorrow in his throat. 

He followed the path of a destruction east, passing through two more settlements both burned to nothing, the former residents left scorched and twisted in an eternal expression of anguish. As he approached a third village, the smell of burning grew stronger and thick black smoke curled into the darkening evening sky. Geralt kicked his heels into Roach’s flanks and spurred her on through the trees. As thin branches whipped over his head and across his clothes, the sounds of horror broke through the serenity of chirping birds and snuffling animals; screams, roaring fires, the shouts of men.

Geralt had caught the creature halfway through an attack. He jumped down from Roach’s saddle and slapped her haunch to send her back into the safety of the woodland. A young woman ran around the corner of a barn, clapped eyes on him and screamed in terror. “No, no. Not another one. Please, _please_ have mercy.” She wet herself in fear. The acrid smell of her urine undercutting the bitter scent of burning flesh and wood. 

“Get out of here. Go,” he growled, and walked into the village square.

The sight that met him there snagged his breath in his throat, eyes widening in disbelief.

Because the creature – _the man_ – was familiar. More than familiar. He was the other half his soul incarnate; his brother; his _everything._ People said they looked the same. When they were younger, the instructors got them confused and, being the scheming little shits they were, they used it to their advantage.

_Eskel._

_It was Eskel._

The familiar red gambeson was striking enough, with its metal spikes and intricate stitching. There was no mistaking the ‘simple Witcher, wolf’. Eskel cut down three men in swift succession as they rallied a futile defence against him, his left hand twisting to set another building alight. The inferno that erupted from his palm consumed the thatch roof and the dry wooden panelling almost instantly. Geralt could hear the screams of the occupants as the flames trapped them inside.

“Eskel!” He roared over the noise. His brother heard him and looked round. His skin was ashen grey, lined with dark veins as if he’d overdosed on potions; his eyes a deep, obsidian black and his lips warped in a sneer. “What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt didn’t even bother to hide the crack in his voice; the horror leaked out of every syllable.

Eskel – the kindest, most mature, centred man in Geralt’s life, a man that would sooner throw himself from a cliff than hurt an innocent soul – prowled around the well in the centre of the village square and approached, his sword held down at his side. The blood of his last kills dripped from the very tip, pooling briefly in the etched runes down the fuller. “Finally,” said a metallic voice that wasn’t Eskel’s usual warm, honey-rich rumble.

Geralt’s medallion hummed against his chest. Magic. Strong magic. “What happened?”

“I saw the truth of it,” Eskel growled, bottomless eyes settling on Geralt’s face. “They’re just parasites, Geralt. Beneath us in so many ways. Helpless, weak.”

_This wasn’t Eskel._ It wasn’t just the voice. Everything about him was different. The way he moved, the way his face twisted, the bow of his shoulders, the words he used. His Eskel loved all life; from the smallest goat to the biggest troll. He only ever took it when it threatened the lives of others. “Who are you?”

A smirk. It didn’t look right on Eskel’s full lips. Those lips were made for smiling – cheeky, loving – not… _that_. Eskel sniffed. “Wondered whether you’d cotton on,” the metallic voice said. “Do you know how long it took to break him? Four days. Four days. And he stared me down the whole time.” 

_Break him._ Geralt’s heart skipped a beat and his skin crawled. What had it done? Whatever creature this was, whatever sorcerer. They would pay. But first, first he needed to get Eskel back. He’d be in there somewhere; screaming in horror at what his hands were doing. There were bodies of children scattered in the burnt shrubs and shattered remains of buildings. “What do you want?”

“I want you to choose, because you seem to think you’re above choosing, above the petty squabbles of men. You believed you were back then, and the arrogance hasn’t left you, has it?”

“Choose what?”

“Hmm,” Eskel lifted his sword and slanted it over his shoulder. “Only evil and greater evil exist and beyond them, in the shadows lurks true evil. True evil, Geralt, is something you can barely imagine, even if you believe nothing can surprise you. And sometimes true evil seizes you by the throat and demands that you choose between it and another, slightly lesser, evil.” The speech drew to an end. Every syllable sliced through Geralt like a physical knife.

He’d heard it before. Word for word. All he could do now was stand in stunned silence, his chest constricted, his fingers tight around the hilt of his sword. His silver sword. Because you used silver to slay monsters.

“Well, Geralt? Don’t you have anything to say in return? I think you need to consult your script, _brother._ ” Eskel snarled and took a step forward. “What evil are you looking at? Greater, lesser or middling?”

“You’re a doppler,” Geralt bit out finally, food sliding back, left hand twitching. _Had to be._ No one would be able to control a Witcher, not to this degree. This had to be a trick. 

“Only one way to find out.”

And then Eskel was on him. While someone else might be holding the reins, or a doppler wielding the sword, there was no loss of skill or precision. Geralt threw up a Quen shield as an Aard cracked through the air; it rebounded off and shattered through the brittle remains of a house. Silver clashed with steel and Eskel had him moving backwards almost instantly.

They were evenly matched. They always had been. Eskel knew every one of Geralt’s moves because he used them too. The steel blade whistled through the air with impossible speed, complemented by blisteringly powerful Signs that Geralt barely survived. Because that was one thing Eskel did have over him. There wasn’t a Witcher alive more magically gifted than Eskel. Four communities had perished at his hands. 

Geralt parried and weaved, nearly losing his weapon when Eskel’s feet left the floor in a swift turn that brought his sword down in a shattering, downwards arc. It sliced through Geralt’s left bicep, sending his hand into spasm; he managed to deflect the next attack, but he had little recovery time. Eskel backed him against a house and Geralt ducked beneath a broad swing that would’ve severed his head from his shoulders. Trying to disable Eskel would prove difficult; strong and swift, he amended his stance for every one of Geralt’s attacks. 

“Eskel, listen to me, fight it, fight whatever this is,” he shouted breathlessly between parries, because if this wasn’t a doppler, there might be a chance he could reach Eskel through the mire of magic controlling his actions.

“Why fight the inevitable? _Choose,_ Geralt.”

When Geralt did land a few blows – a slice across the thigh, a cut through the gambeson beneath the armour – it had little impact. Eskel barely slowed; like his sense of pain had vanished. 

_I’m going to have to kill him._

The thought rose in the back of Geralt’s head and icy fingers of dread wrapped his throat.

_I’m going to have to kill Eskel._

One of the residents stepped in to help. It was the smallest act of bravery, but it turned the tide. A wooden bucket hurtled towards them and Eskel turned briefly, left hand lifting for a Sign, and it gave Geralt the opening he needed. He took a decisive step forward and drove the blade through Eskel’s arm. The ligaments broke apart around the edge and the weapon fell from slack fingers. 

Eskel snarled in rage, the bucket glancing off his shoulder, and his left hand snatched Geralt by the throat. The grip was strong enough to choke the life out of him and Geralt’s vision quickly edged in black. His brother growled. “You see, when you don’t choose, others will make your choices for you, Geralt of Rivia. And for you, I choose death.”

“Please.” 

The fingers tightened. Geralt didn’t want to. He couldn’t. The tears stung his eyes. The sorcerer believed he wouldn’t kill his brother. That he couldn’t. The sorcerer was right. But this wasn’t his brother, this creature with blackened eyes that had killed women, children – innocents – was not the kind, big-hearted man that talked to the chickens at the keep as if they understood him or held Lambert in his arms when he had nightmares or drank with Jaskier or – 

Geralt drove his sword through the centre of Eskel’s chest. It sliced up through his lungs, narrowly missing his heart, and erupted out his back. The fingers around his throat went slack as Eskel stumbled and fell. Geralt gasped huge mouthfuls of air as he threw his sword to the side. 

Eskel’s form wasn’t changing. It remained solid as it shuddered in pain. _Not a doppler._

His eyes was fading back to normal; bright veins of amber appeared in the inky blackness. As Geralt grabbed Eskel by the gambeson and pulled him into his lap, he bit back the sting of tears. “It’s alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Eskel’s mouth was working, seeking air that he couldn’t hold in his chest. “’m… sorry…” He managed, blood bursting from the back of his throat across his full lower lip. “N—m—.” 

“I know, it wasn’t you, I know,” Geralt could hear the sorrow in his own voice. “It’s alright. Don’t struggle. Don’t fight it.” He stroked down Eskel’s scarred cheek, fingertips following the familiar topography of marred skin down to a raised lip soaked in blood.

Geralt made himself watch. Made himself watch the life drain from Eskel’s eyes as his blood soaked the ground below them. He held those broad shoulders and stroked his face until the last gasping attempt for air ended and his brother – one of the men he loved most – died in his arms.

_Greater. Middling. Lesser. I’d prefer not to choose._

Make a choice or don’t. It didn’t matter. The very decision not to choose was still a choice. A choice to turn your back and walk away. A mistake made decades ago that still haunted him. 

_That was still costing him and those he loved._

Shaking fingers found the chain of Eskel’s medallion and pulled it free. The metal was still warm in his palm; he held it as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Eskel’s mouth for the final time. Geralt disproved a rumour several centuries old that day. As he howled in agony, the tears streaming down his bloodied face, the body of the man he loved clutched in his arms, the surviving villagers learned that Witchers felt emotion. Geralt’s grief was so strong, so overwhelming, that even the gods took note of it; a distant storm rumbled in the distance, lightning forking through dark crowds, but Geralt didn’t move.

He didn’t move as the skies opened and extinguished the fires, as the rain mixed with his tears and washed the blood from Eskel’s face and hair. Geralt knelt there for hours. He’d get his revenge. He’d find the sorcerer that had broken Eskel’s mind and brought him under control and then he’d gut him.

It didn’t matter though, because the damage had been done. 

The next time someone he loved came close to losing their life because of his choices, he’d scream at them on a mountaintop, blame them for all of his own wrongs, and send them away.

Because no matter what choice Geralt made, it would always be the wrong one.

He would _always_ lose.


	26. Lambert/Aiden - Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Modern AU. Lambert and Aiden catch the flu from Zoe..._

Children are gross. 

Any parent knows this.

They excrete too many fluids to count, they get shit—sometimes literal if they’re young enough—everywhere, they eat things they shouldn’t, they have no concept of personal space and they bring home weird and wonderful plagues from school. Illnesses that have never been seen before in the adult world, and apparently multiply a thousand-fold in severity when they make contact with an adult body. 

Aiden caught it first. His immune system didn’t benefit from years in insect-ridden jungles sheltering in bivvies, or surrounded by diseases propagated by war. Getting near Zoe as she coughed, sneezed and spluttered was always a risk, but ever the dutiful step father, Aiden ensured she was wrapped up and comfortable from the first sniffle all the way through to the Monday morning when Keira came to collect her. 

The Monday evening, Aiden sneezed.

By Tuesday morning, he was laid up in bed with Lambert mocking him for being such a baby. “Want me to get out the Calpol?” He teased as a palm rested over Aiden’s forehead to check his temperature. 

“Fuck off, kitten,” Aiden slurred through several doses of drowsy flu medicine and a head full of mucus.

“Now, now, is that anyway to treat your nurse, hm? I could lock you in here and paint a red cross on the door like they did during the Black Death.”

“The Great Plague.”

“What?”

“They used red crosses in 1665; Black Death was 1348.”

Lambert scowled. “Right, whatever. I’ll go get you some tea.”

Wednesday afternoon, Lambert started to feel lightheaded at work and then his nose started leaking. By midnight, he was lying in bed with Aiden feeling like he’d been hit by a bus. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool; his eyes, his nose and his ears were all clogged and/or leaking depending on how they felt. The moment he sprawled out with a box of tissues and the Neurofen, he growled. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

By mid-afternoon the next day, they were both hungry. The packet of Rich Tea Biscuits and the bag of Monster Munch Lambert had brought up with him initially were exhausted. The small wire basket near the bed was brimming with used issues, and Lambert had stripped down to his boxers, the rest of his clothes soaked in sweat. His stomach growled. “Aiden.” 

“What?” 

“Go get me a sandwich.” Lambert used his last remaining strength to flop over onto his side, bleary eyes opening just a fraction to look at his husband.

“No.” 

“Please.”

“Lambert, I can’t move. Everything aches.”

“I’ll give you a blowjob.” 

“You mean you’ll sneeze and cough all over my cock,” Aiden’s head lolled to the side. 

“My mouth will be there. It counts.”

“No. Look, I’ll order some pizza.” He reached for his phone, only to knock it with the edge of his hand. They both listened forlornly as it clattered to the floor. “Fuck.” 

“Now one of us has to move to pick it up, and we’d have to go and answer the door anyway,” Lambert groaned. “I knew I should’ve taught Virtute how to open the fridge door.” Silence fell for about two minutes, ended by another pointed growl from Lambert’s stomach. “Aiden, I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not.” 

“If the flu doesn’t take me, starvation will, or both. I’m fading away.”

“Lambert…” 

“Tell Zoe and Mason I love them. Tell Geralt to fuck off. I’ll accept Eskel as my replacement; he’ll treat you right. No twink though, I don’t want him touching my guitar.” 

“You’re such a drama queen,” Aiden’s eyes closed as a particularly aggressive pang of pain spidered through his temples.

“Goodbye, cruel world,” Lambert rolled over onto his back and lifted an arm weakly from the bed towards the ceiling.

“Oh my god—fine, I’ll go, just…” Aiden fell out of bed onto his knees and crawled towards the nearest item of tall furniture. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself to his feet, and stumbled out into the hallway. Lambert had put the cat feeder on at the first sign of illness, so Virtute only approached because she was pleased to see him. She wrapped around his legs, and he nudged her away with a quiet grumble.

Bread, butter, turkey slices. Aiden retreated from the chopping board four times to cough into his elbow. This was true love. Not the expensive dinners, or the flowers, or the anniversary cards or even the silver wedding band on his left hand. It was rolling out of bed feeling like death incarnate to make the asshole a fucking sandwich. He boiled the kettle to make a thermos of tea and grabbed the remaining bags of Doritos for good measure. 

The stairs felt like Mount Everest as Aiden stumbled back up them, and Lambert groaned with pleasure as the plate settled on his bedside cabinet. “Come to daddy.” He purred, dragging himself upright, and proceeded to moan and grunt in appreciation through the first few bites.

“If I knew you were this easy to please, I wouldn’t have bought half the toys,” Aiden curled up under the duvet and watched Lambert devour his… lunch? What even was the time? 

“I’m a simple man, with simple needs,” Lambert proffered the second piece vaguely in the air above the plate. “Zoe has a future in biological warfare. I might enter negotiations with Glaxo Smith.” 

“Don’t they make medicine?” 

Lambert smirked. “There isn’t any money in making people better, Aiden.”

“Good to see your nihilism is still in good health, even if the rest of you isn’t.”

“If I started spouting life affirming memes or some shit, you’d know I was dying,” Lambert murmured around a mouthful of bread.

“Or you were turning into a middle-aged woman.”

“Have live, laugh, love tattooed across my lower back, purchase a cockapoo and buy a Fiat 500.”

“Hmm,” Aiden grinned and let his eyes close.

The flu would abate in a few days and they’d be back to their normal routine. Despite the prolific amount of mucus, sweat and grouching, Aiden couldn’t complain; he treasured any time he got to spend at Lambert’s side.


End file.
